


The Heart of a Dragon

by mille_libri



Series: Dragon [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-06-02 05:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 59
Words: 161,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6553168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reluctant Herald Ren Trevelyan, who doesn't believe in Andraste; Qunari spy The Iron Bull, who is no longer sure if he believes in anything; and an Inquisition in search of a purpose and a leader.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Orders

The Iron Bull stood at the edge of the seashore, letting the waves lick his boots, and stared off across the Waking Sea into the distance. The smell was almost that of Seheron, if he closed his eyes, but the sound was entirely different. These waves crashed with violence onto the rocks, over and over, while the waves that lapped Seheron's shores were much gentler, more calming. Which he liked better was hard to say. Seheron was home, but the Storm Coast was more invigorating; it made him feel like fighting. And anything that made the Iron Bull feel like fighting was a good thing.

He opened up the parchment in his hand, his single eye scanning the lines, and sighed. He quite enjoyed running his own mercenary company ... sometimes enjoyed it enough to forget that his leash was held elsewhere. His handlers were reminding him of that right now, commanding him to take his Chargers and manage to get hired on with the new Inquisition that was forming in the south of Ferelden.

The Chargers had heard of the big hole in the sky that had opened when the Chantry Conclave was destroyed, but none of them were what you might call devout Andrastians, so no one had been overly concerned, not by the destruction of the Chantry. They'd looked on the hole in the sky with their typical healthy dose of skepticism. The massive Qunari spy ring, however, looked on the situation as a whole with curiosity and some concern, and wanted him to go and find out what was going on with the woman people were beginning to call “The Herald of Andraste.” They discounted any possibility that a woman could accomplish much in a man's role, conveniently forgetting that the Hero of Ferelden who had stopped the last Blight had been a woman.

The Iron Bull had been away from Seheron and living among southerners long enough to have largely given up the idea that women were inferior in combat. He had quite a few amongst his Chargers, and they were as tough as any man; tougher, sometimes. And this Herald would need to do a lot of fighting. He understood from his handler's letter that she was standing up to rogue Templars and apostate mages as well as whatever demons were spilling forth from the Breach. The Iron Bull decided he had no objection whatsoever to swinging a blade in that service.

“Krem!” he shouted. “Get your worthless ass over here!”

His second-in-command came strolling over from the campsite. “You called, Chief? And so sweetly, too.” He looked at the parchment. The Iron Bull hadn't made any secret of his work with the Ben-Hassrath, so Krem guessed immediately what he had been reading. “New orders?”

“Yeah. What've we got going right now?”

“Teyrn Cousland wants us to clear some bandits off the North Road.”

“Hm.” The Iron Bull frowned. “Can we skip it?”

Krem grimaced. “I'd rather not. Cousland's a good guy—he pays us well and takes care of his people, and I'd like to finish off the work for him, not burn that bridge.” He raised his eyebrows. “The Inquisition, yeah?”

“You ought to be the spy.”

“Not hard to figure out; it's the biggest thing going in the southern countries, and you're probably the closest agent the Ben-Hassrath have down here.”

“Hard to say. They're not exactly open about who they've got where.” The Iron Bull frowned at the parchment, weighing the options. He looked at Krem speculatively. “Tell you what, we'll finish off the bandits up here; you ride down and check out the Inquisition, tell this Herald of Andraste person the Chargers want to talk about joining up. Not like we need your lazy ass on this job, anyway.”

Krem grinned. “You mean you'll probably get yourself killed without me, and I can take your share of the cut. Fine, then. I'll tell her to meet you here on the Coast, shall I?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” There was a pause as they both looked at each other, and the Iron Bull nodded. “You're right, we need a carrot. Something besides the Chargers to bring them out here. What've we got?”

Krem thought about that for a minute. “Gotta be something here on the Storm Coast.”

“I've got it—those Vints who landed a few days ago. We were going to check them out anyway.” The Iron Bull wondered if Krem knew that his use of the word “Vints” instead of Tevinters was as much a test of Krem, who had been born in the Imperium, as it was Qunari habit. The two races had been at war for a long, long time.

If Krem cared about that, he didn't show it. Never had, really, but that didn't stop the Iron Bull from testing him occasionally. “That's a good one, Chief. I think the Inquisition'll want to know that anyway.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

As his second-in-command hurried off, the Iron Bull turned back toward the ocean, shredding the parchment in his hands and letting the pieces fall into the water. He'd been getting too comfortable anyway, he told himself, and maybe this Inquisition would bring his men more opportunity to pick up some coin. They'd like that.

For himself, he was good. It wouldn't be by the ocean, and he would miss the sound of the waves and the smell of the sea, but as long as they had some ale, some meat, and some hot women, it wouldn't be such a bad change.

With that thought, he turned away from the sea, bellowing for his Chargers to assemble. They had some bandits to kill.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
In the Inquisition camp at Haven, Ren Trevelyan, whom increasing numbers of people were beginning to call the “Herald of Andraste”, was on her knees picking a lock. She listened carefully to the tumblers; it had been a while since the last lock she picked.

Something about that ... picking a lock ... it teased at her memory. But thinking on it too long was going to give her a headache, she had learned that by now, so she let the nagging thought go and put all her focus on the lock.

Soon enough, it gave, and she slipped inside the hut, looking around. The mage Solas was an enigma, and Ren had never been someone who liked waiting for an explanation to an enigma, not when she could force one by a little clandestine work. Sadly, other than the fact that the hut was mostly bare and almost painfully clean and held absolutely no personal ornaments or memorabilia at all, there appeared to be little in the way of answers to be found.

She let herself out the way she had come, clicking the lock into place behind her.

“Chuckles would not approve,” said a voice off to her right, and she jumped about a foot in the air. 

“Varric, was that necessary?”

“No, but entertaining, definitely.” The dwarf grinned at her. “You find anything interesting in there?”

“Not a thing. And I mean that literally. Nothing. Who travels with nothing personal?”

“Someone who's been dropped out of the sky?”

Ren frowned at him. True enough, she had nothing of her own here in Haven—all her belongings had been destroyed in the explosion at the Conclave other than what she was wearing at the time. She should really send for the rest of her things at some point, but that would mean letting her family know where she was, which she wasn't at all anxious to do. One of the nice things about being taken on with the Inquisition meant no more family oversight. She followed Varric's train of thought, catching back up with the conversation. “So ... you're saying Solas fell from the sky?”

Varric shrugged. “He might have, for all we know.” He grinned at her. “My tent's this way, if you want to go through my things.”

“I did that last week.”

“I know. But I've written another chapter since then, and I figured you might want to read it.”

Ren chuckled. “I might just take you up on that.”

“Where does a Marcher noble learn to pick locks and sneak around going through other people's stuff?”

“What else is there to do when you're bored at parties?”

Varric eyed her thoughtfully. “I get the feeling there's more to it than that.”

“Possibly. Ask me again some other time, maybe I'll tell you. I suppose you could get me drunk ...”

“I've seen you drink, and I don't think I have that much coin.”

They both laughed.

In her brief time in Haven with the forces that now formed the Inquisition, the dwarf was the closest thing to a friend Ren had made. She couldn't call him a real friend because there was something in him that was closed off, something he deflected people away from with a constant string of jokes and patter. Not that she didn't have her secrets, as well, her private thoughts, so she didn't blame him, but it would have been nice to have someone around she could truly relax with.

Solas, the apostate elf who somehow seemed to know so much about the Fade, was too serious, and the way he looked at Ren made her vaguely uncomfortable—like a bug being studied. The other mage who had joined the party, Vivienne, reminded Ren of one of her older sisters. She was nice enough, but always out for what was best for her agenda. Ren couldn't imagine Vivienne ever putting someone before herself. Although she fought well—generous with her magic and not sparing herself in the combat, which said good things about her.

The elf Sera was entertaining to drink with, but a bit too odd to trust fully. And Cassandra, the former Seeker who had called the Inquisition into being, was as straight-laced as they came, and still not entirely over her early suspicions of Ren. It was hard to blame her—falling out of a massive explosion unharmed and with an unexplainable green glowing mark on her hand was, if not necessarily the most suspicious thing Ren had ever done, well up there. Of course, there was past history there as well—five years ago Ren had been promised to marry one of Cassandra's distant relatives, a middle-aged member of the sprawling Pentaghast clan, and only Ren's last-minute disappearance had prevented such a fate. While Cassandra claimed not to care much about her family—something they had in common—running out on an obligation wasn't a move calculated to impress her.

Which left Ren's advisors, the three people responsible for the day-to-day running of the Inquisition. Sister Leliana, the spymaster, deep in her own head at all times. Ren liked her, but Leliana kept barriers up between herself and those around her. Josephine Montilyet, the ambassador, who seemed to know more about Ren's activities in the last five years than Ren would have liked, and didn't appear to approve. And Cullen, the commander of the forces, who looked as though he'd have a fine sense of humor if he didn't keep it locked up somewhere. Ren supposed that came from his years as a Templar. All three of them were really too busy for fun, anyway.

And everyone else in the Inquisition appeared too awed by the whole Herald of Andraste thing to be able to talk to Ren like she was a person, in large part. Which was ironic, because Ren didn't even believe in Andraste. Or the Maker, for that matter.

All of which left Ren spending most of her evenings in the tavern, talking to Flissa the barkeep or playing Wicked Grace with Varric or trying to drink enough to understand what in the Void Sera was getting at.

What they needed, Ren thought, were more people in Haven who weren't so bloody serious all the time. Not just for her, but for everyone—this level of intensity would be hard to maintain if they didn't take a break once in a while.

“Trying to decide how to liven up the place?” Varric asked. He had an uncanny way of following her thought processes.

“Something like that. Got any suggestions?”

“I'd suggest large amounts of alcohol, but I think right now that would just make everyone want to cry, which would defeat the purpose.”

“Just a little,” Ren agreed. She was restless—it felt like about time to go see what she could do outside of Haven to help build the Inquisition's reputation. She could use a good fight.

They were approaching the Chantry now, and Ren noticed a man in some really nice armor standing by the doors. He was talking to anyone who went by, but getting no luck in being listened to.

“Anything I can help with?” Ren asked him. 

“I hope so. I've got a message for the Inquisition, but I'm having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.”

She sighed. “We've got to work on our infrastructure a bit. What's your message?”

“We've got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. In northern Ferelden,” he clarified, when Ren looked at him blankly. “My company commander, the Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge.”

Ren exchanged glances with Varric. “The Iron Bull”? There was a pretentious name if ever she'd heard one.

“I see you haven't heard of us. I'm Cremisius Aclassi, second in command,” the man in the fine armor said. “You can ask around in Val Royeaux; we've got references. We're loyal, we're tough, and we don't break contracts.”

“The 'Iron Bull',” she said. “What's he like as a commander?”

Cremisius Aclassi, second in command, didn't miss the ironic stressing of the nickname, and didn't like it much. “It's not as odd a name as it sounds,” he said. “He's one of those Qunari—you know, the big guys, with the horns.”

Varric coughed next to her, and Ren glanced at him, wondering what the trouble was with the Qunari, before she remembered having read about what the Qunari had done to Kirkwall.

Aclassi noticed, too, but he kept going. He seemed proud of his commander, and Ren respected him for that—and respected the commander a bit more, as well. It took some doing to gain the respect of your people. “Look,” Aclassi said, “he leads from the front, he pays us well, and he's a lot smarter than the last bastard I worked for. And he's professional; we accept contracts with whoever makes the first real offer. This is the first time I've seen him pick a side.” Something flickered across his face for a moment, some type of unease that left Ren wondering if there was more to it than picking a side. “The Iron Bull wants to work for the Inquisition. He thinks you're doing good work, and he thinks we can help.” He looked around the camp. “I think we can, too.”

Ren thought rapidly. There was more to this than there seemed, yes, and having a Qunari around could be tricky ... but they needed more people; if this Aclassi fellow could be believed, the Chargers would be hard workers; and it couldn't hurt to follow up on the information about the Tevinters. She nodded crisply. “I'll look into your references. If they check out, I look forward to meeting your 'Iron Bull'.”

“We're the best you'll find,” Aclassi said. “Come to the Storm Coast and see us in action.” He handed her a map with their location marked on it, bowed, and made his way out of camp.

“I don't like it,” Varric said.

“You were quiet.”

“Smelling a rat. Or a trap. Or cheese.”

“You're just saying that because the leader is Qunari.”

Varric sighed. “Possibly.”

“Maybe he's Qunari just like you're a dwarf.” Varric frowned at her, and Ren grinned. “A prince among your kind, elevated far above the teeming masses of your fellow dwarva.” She nudged him. “Get it? 'Elevated far above'? Because surface dwarf?”

“Oh, I got it. And your point. Not sure I like it, though.”

Ren's eyes turned in the direction Aclassi had gone. “Any merc company rich enough to afford that armor can't suck too badly. I'll have Josephine look into their references—can't hurt to check them out. And if it's a trap, we'll just kill them all. Won't that be better?”

Varric shook his head. “You're scary sometimes.”

“I do my best.”


	2. The Storm Coast

The Storm Coast felt like home. Ren jumped from rock to rock, listening to the waves and smelling the ocean and letting the spray soak in. Behind her, her three companions watched with varying degrees of tolerance and amusement.

“Don't you love this?”

“Darling. You'll slip and fall and ... well, I suppose your hair can't get any worse,” Vivienne said. “Still, isn't it rather beneath the dignity of Andraste's Herald to gambol in the waves like a child?”

Cassandra said nothing, but her stance looked very much as though she agreed with Vivienne.

Ren laughed. “Who's to see me? The bandits we're about to kill? Just think how nice it will be for them when they discover I know what I'm doing after all.”

“Nice, Herald?” Varric asked.

“Sure! Everyone wants to be killed by someone competent.” Ren looked up as a huge figure came into view above the mountains. “Me, I think I'd like to be killed by that.”

They all turned around, following her gaze to the dragon that was now soaring high above their heads. Varric closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath. 

Cassandra looked back at Ren. “Not today,” she said firmly. “Today we find out what happened to the Grey Wardens and we find this mercenary company. No dragons!”

“Fine.” Ren still hadn't worked out who was supposed to be in charge. Cassandra had called the Inquisition, and she sat in on the War Room meetings, but in the field she was mostly content to follow. So it seemed that Ren was supposed to lead while they were outside Haven ... but occasionally Cassandra appeared to forget she had decided to take a subordinate role. It wasn't too surprising—being subordinate to anyone didn't seem to Ren to be Cassandra's style—but it was often confusing. Still, she had a point here today. “No dragons,” Ren agreed. “There's really no time, anyway.” She sighed. “Maybe next time.”

Reluctantly, she turned away from the seacoast and toward the mountains, leading the way up the slopes, following the maps Leliana had given her of where the Wardens were most likely to be located, if they were still here at all. Cassandra kept up well; Vivienne trailed by a bit, concerned about keeping her robes clean; and Varric lagged far behind.

Ren stopped to let him catch up, and he glared at her. “Next time you ladies want to go rock climbing, would you mind bringing along someone, anyone, who isn't a dwarf? Besides, these mountains are going to ruin my boots.”

“I'll get you new ones.”

He didn't appear to find this mollifying, but he managed to entertain himself by needling Cassandra as they went along, until Cassandra was ready to backhand him and Vivienne threatened to shoot them both with lightning if they didn't stop talking.

Ren ignored it all, focusing on the task and occasionally pausing to study the surrounding countryside. She wondered if this Iron Bull had sent scouts out to watch them; it was what she would have done in his place. The Chargers' references had checked out; nearly everyone they'd worked for gave them glowing reviews. Ren was curious to meet the Iron Bull. She had seen Qunari before, but rarely, and mostly of the type they called Tal-Vashoth, vicious criminals who had needed killing. Ren and the mercenary company she'd been with at the time had been happy to oblige, but the Tal-Vashoth had been good fighters and the battles hard-won. If the Iron Bull was that good, he and his company would be a much-needed, much-appreciated addition to the Inquisition.

Hours later, in the midst of a thunderstorm, she stood under a rocky overhang and studied the last of an increasingly strident and illegible series of notes from the Grey Wardens. “They're not here, that's for sure. Whoever this 'he' is they're following, he's led them out of Ferelden.”

“That can't be good,” Varric said. 

Vivienne shrugged philosophically. “We're not in the midst of a Blight, after all. What need do we have of Grey Wardens?”

“We will need them again the next time there is a Blight,” Cassandra pointed out. “It is wise to care for them now that we don't search for them fruitlessly then.”

Her point was inarguable. The Grey Wardens were clearly gone, however, with no information left behind about their final destination, and there was nothing more to be done about them today.

“I guess we go find the Chargers,” Ren said.

“In this weather?” Varric groused. “Have you ever seen a moldy dwarf? Because you're about to.”

“Next time I'll leave you at home,” Ren promised him.

“Please.”

Aclassi was waiting for them at the rendezvous point as they approached. He seemed as little perturbed by the thunderstorm and the pouring rain as Ren was. “You're just in time,” he said without preamble. “We caught up with the Tevinters just an hour or so ago; follow me and we won't miss anything.”

“I do hate to miss some good bloodshed,” Ren said agreeably, happy to have the chance to see the Chargers in action.

They followed Aclassi until they could hear the sounds of battle. “How do I know which ones are the Chargers?” Ren asked him.

“We'll handle this one.”

“The Void you will. I don't hang back from a fight.”

Aclassi looked her over, grinning. “Fine. Chargers are the ones winning. And the Tevinters are in matching armor.”

“Got it.”

It was a pretty fine scrap, lots of blades flashing and people shouting and grunts of people getting hit with arrows. Thunder rolled high above them and lightning flashed, and Ren was practically bouncing on her toes ready to jump in the middle. “Varric and Vivienne, get rid of those archers,” Ren said. “Cassandra?”

“Yes, Herald.”

“Let's go.”

Aclassi had already joined the fight; Ren threw herself at the nearest armored Tevinter, catching him by surprise and plunging a dagger into the back of his neck. She whirled to catch the next one, but he had his sword up and they did a little dance before one of her daggers moved too fast for him.

Ren found herself next to someone who could only be the Iron Bull. He had large upturned horns sticking out from his head, and he was very big. Enormous, in fact. There was a rakish patch over his left eye, and she wondered if that was a real injury or just there for effect. He looked down at her with the uncovered eye, grinning.

“Herald of Andraste, am I right?”

“Got it in one.”

“Good. Let's kill things.”

She laughed, tossing her wet hair back off her face. “I already was.” 

“So was I. And I have a head start.”

“Fine; next time we'll start even.”

“You're on.” And he moved on to the next Tevinter, his giant blade making short work of the man.

Ren threw herself back into the battle, feeling the bloodlust rising. This was the part she was good at; never mind the political entanglements and the mess of building an army and the niggly secrets of spycraft. She was best in the midst of the fray, rolling and stabbing and finding the spaces no one expected her to show up in.

At last the Tevinters were all down, and she cleaned and stowed her daggers. The rain had stopped, and there was even a hint of sun coming out.

The Iron Bull was on the other side of the field, but he bellowed loud enough to be heard in Par Vollen. “Chargers, stand down! Krem, how'd we do?”

Aclassi had been seeing to the Chargers, and he came strolling over to the Iron Bull with his report. “Five or six wounded, Chief. Superficial.” He smiled at Ren. “I see you two have met.”

“Briefly.”

“Good. Then I'll get back to the men.”

“Tell the throatcutters to finish up, then all of you feel free to break out the casks,” the Iron Bull said. “I'll be over after we conduct some business.”

“Throatcutters?” Ren asked.

“The Chief likes to make sure we take care of all the details.”

“Got it. You mind if my people give you a hand?”

“Not at all. Plenty in the casks for everyone.”

“Varric will be happy to hear that.” She turned to the Iron Bull. “Shall we?”  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull led the Herald of Andraste a little way down the beach, away from the others, watching her covertly out of his single eye. She was a bit less covert about her scrutiny of him, and he wondered if he knew how much of herself she gave away doing that. Of course, he knew a fair number of things about her already—since he'd sent Krem to Haven with the message, the Iron Bull and his contacts had been busy discovering as much as they could about the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisition.

Seeing her in a fight had been worthwhile; he was glad he'd timed it so well. He'd had scouts watching her group as they moved through the Storm Coast, and had engaged with the Tevinters just in time.

She was ferocious, and he liked that in a fighter. A little reckless, and more of a lone wolf than a leader. He could help her with that, he imagined. Impatient, too; she was waiting for him to speak for now, but it was evident that was a conscious decision, not her natural tactic. It wouldn't take much to outwait her. For now, though, he didn't want to put her at a disadvantage, so he made the opening move.

“Drinks are coming. Don't know about you, but I talk better while drinking.” He didn't, necessarily, but drinks tended to put other people at ease.

“I hear you're looking for work,” she said, cutting straight to the chase.

The Iron Bull was disappointed. No subtlety. Still, he could appreciate the direct approach, too. “I am. But not until after drinks.”

“So we just wait to be ... waited on?”

“Not what you're used to, Lady Trevelyan?” He was pleased to see she wasn't surprised.

She sighed. “What else do you know about me?” 

“More than you want me to.”

“I'll take your word for it.” She leaned against a large piece of driftwood, watching him.

The Iron Bull leaned against a large, flat rock, folding his arms over his chest and watching her in turn. She was pretty, he'd give her that. He had a weakness for redheads, and hers was the dark, rich red of bloodstone as it dried soft around her face. 

They let the standoff continue for a moment, until Krem caught up with them, bearing two not-quite-brimming tankards. “My lady,” he said, handing one to her.

She nearly recoiled, but at the term, not the drink. “Please. Ren, if you will. Herald, if you absolutely must.”

“Ren?” Krem asked.

“Short for Morvoren,” the Iron Bull said. “Odd name.”

She glared at him. Her eyes were a clear, light shade of blue, enhanced by the delicate blue lines of the tattoo that snaked under one eye, across the bridge of her nose, and above the other eye. “This coming from someone named 'the Iron Bull'?”

He laughed at that. “And you've met my lieutenant, Cremisius Aclassi.”

“Krem.”

“Pleasure.”

“The throatcutters are done, Chief,” Krem said.

“Already? Have 'em check again. I don't want to miss any of the Tevinter bastards. No offense, Krem.”

“None taken.” Krem nodded to the Herald, turning to head back down the beach. He called his parting shot over his shoulder. “At least a bastard knows who his mother was, which puts him one up on you Qunari.”

“He's Tevinter?”

“Born there. Not sure he'd call himself that now, though.” He took a swallow his ale. Good stuff. “So, you've seen us fight. We're expensive, but we're worth it. And I'm sure the Inquisition can afford us.”

She wasn't so sure, he could see that in her face. “How much is this going to cost me, exactly?”

“Oh, nothing personally, unless you're buying the drinks later. Your ambassador, what's her name? Josephine. We'd go through her.”

“The Chargers do seem like an excellent company.”

“Oh, they are ... but you're not just getting the boys. You're getting me.”

“Lucky us?”

She was feisty; he liked that about her. His orders were to stay close to her, and that wasn't going to be as onerous a duty as he'd imagined it might. Nothing worse than having to fight with someone who bored him, and this Morvoren Trevelyan was not boring, at least, not so far. “You need a frontline bodyguard. Those your best people with you?”

“Some of them.”

“Puts you out in front too much; not your style. You'd do better as support for a bigger blade, coming in while they're distracted and taking them out. I can be the bigger blade. Demons, dragons ... the bigger the better.”

“Dragons?”

“Oh, yeah.” There was one here on the Storm Coast; he could practically feel its presence.

She nodded, grinning. “I think we can make that happen at some point.”

“Good.” The Iron Bull had debated how much he would tell her, but seeing her now, he decided a bit of openness up front would sell him better than the potential pitfall of the lie later. “There's one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off.”

The Herald raised her eyebrows.

“Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”

“A Qunari organization—like a city watch, or something of that nature.”

“Closer to spies, really, but yeah, that's them. Or, rather, us.”

The eyebrows lifted further, but she waited for him to continue.

“The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach; they want to know what's being done to stop it. I've been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the leadership, and report back. That said, I'll also get reports in from other Ben-Hassrath agents, and I can share those with your organization.”

“You're just ... telling me this?”

He shrugged. “The more I hear about the Breach, the less I like it. If swinging a sword and killing things can help, I'm in.”

“You still could have hidden what you are.”

“From something called the Inquisition?” The Iron Bull laughed. “I hope not, or you need a new name. Nah, I'd've been tipped sooner or later. I'd rather be up-front from the start, so we all know who we're dealing with.”

“And what would you tell the Ben-Hassrath about us?”

“Enough to keep my superiors happy, nothing that would compromise your operation.”

“Would I be able to look over those reports?”

“Only if you read Qunlat.”

“I'll get right on that,” she said dryly.

“Look, the Qunari want to know if they should launch an invasion to stop the whole damn world from falling apart. Do you want that? I don't. If you let me send word of what you're doing, it'll put some minds at ease, and that's good for everyone.” The Iron Bull had always taken pleasure in what an excellent tool the truth could be, when properly applied, and this was no different.

“And what do we get out of your reports?” She was suspicious, which was good; she should be. But she also knew he was offering her something valuable she couldn't afford to pass up. They both knew where this was going, but he liked that she was asking all the right questions.

“Little bit of everything. Enemy movements, suspicious activities, bits of intriguing gossip. If your spymaster's any good, she'll be able to make use of it.”

“She?” The Herald was smiling, acknowledging that he had done his homework. “All right, you're in.” 

“Excellent. Meet you back at Haven?”

“Actually, we're done here, too. Might as well travel together; easier to get to know one another.”

“I look forward to it.” He did, too, which was a pleasant surprise.


	3. Trust

The Chargers had treated them all the night before to an impromptu feast. Mostly fish, which made Ren happy because the smell of it frying was like home again, and the ale flowed as freely as the stories. Varric entered into the storytelling with gusto, and was an honorary Charger before the night was over. Vivienne kept herself largely to herself, but she smiled, and Vivienne's smile was lovely enough to make up for a great deal of silence. Ren joined in the songs loudly but left the stories alone—not that she didn't have any, but she was trying to keep that part of her background quiet as long as she could. As far as she knew, no one in the Inquisition with the possible exception of Josephine knew of the years she had spent with Dooley's Raiders in the northeastern Marches, and she wasn't sure how most of them would react if they did know.

Occasionally Ren would glance up after swallowing back a story that wanted to come out and find the Iron Bull's single eye on her, sparkling silver with amusement. She'd be willing to bet her next ale that he knew all about her past, but somehow she didn't mind. He wouldn't be likely to hold it against her. She'd made no move to go sit near him, preferring to watch from afar in an attempt to get a good gauge on him. He ended up sitting next to Cassandra, and managed to get the Seeker out of her shell with a discussion of the different metals used in sword-making and their respective strengths and weaknesses.

Ren wondered what made this addition to her team different. She hadn't felt the need to size up Vivienne so carefully; hadn't needed to study Sera with such concentration when she'd added them to the Inquisition. But the Iron Bull was challenging her to be worthy of his steel, she could feel it. He seemed to think she ought to distrust him, and maybe she should ... but she did trust him, already, and she wasn't sure why. Hence the scrutiny, trying to understand why she felt so comfortable with him, despite his having straight-up admitted to being a spy.

The following morning the Chargers were up and about bright and early, wagons packed and horses loaded. Ren and her people got ready as well, although Vivienne trailed behind a bit, refusing to be rushed in her morning preparations.

At last they were all prepared to start. Ren took a quick, wistful trip back to the beach, looking out over the ocean, and was surprised when the Iron Bull joined her a few minutes later.

“I love the sea,” she said. “It sounds like home.”

“More the smell than the sound for me, but yeah. Same here.” He crossed his arms over his massive chest and breathed in the scent. “No ocean in the south of Ferelden, though.”

“No, but a pretty serious amount of snow.” She raised an eyebrow at his bare torso. “Do you put on more clothes in the cold?”

“Nope.”

“So what are you, impervious to wind and weather?”

He nodded, grinning.

“Lucky you.” She bent and plucked a sprig of spindleweed growing in the surf at her feet, and headed back to the wagons.

The Iron Bull looked out at the ocean for a little longer. Glancing back, Ren saw him, too, bend and pick a sprig of spindleweed, bringing it to his nose and sniffing it like the most delicate flower, then tuck it into the pouch at his belt before he turned away from the water. She smiled.

On the way back to Haven, she mostly rode alongside Krem. Varric had chosen to ride in the wagon the Iron Bull was driving, since the Chargers had no horse big enough for the Qunari and the Inquisition horses were a bit large for the dwarf. Ren made a mental note that they'd have to resolve the troubles of Master Dennett, the Redcliffe horsemaster, sooner rather than later, so they could get him to find a proper mount for the Iron Bull. Something in a draft horse, probably. And a large pony of some type for Varric.

“Don't worry about the chief,” Krem said, when she voiced her concerns. “He'll keep up.”

“Sure, but I don't want to wear him out before we get to the combat.” She looked at Krem curiously. “So if he's going to be acting as my bodyguard, does that mean you'll be in charge of the Chargers?” She winced at the phrasing. “Sorry.”

“I've heard it before. Usually from people who think they're being funny.” Krem smiled. “Yeah, I'll run anything we're assigned by the Chief, but I'll be the one leading our missions as long as his is to stay close to you.”

Ren frowned. “How close are we talking, exactly?”

Krem glanced over at her, raising an eyebrow. “You asking if the Chief's going to put the moves on you?” 

“I guess.” She wouldn't necessarily have minded, under other circumstances—she did like her men big, and taking him to bed would be a bit like killing a dragon, a lifetime achievement waiting to happen—but her position within the Inquisition was hardly so secure she could afford to be seen as someone who slept around, especially with her own people.

“Nah.” 

Ren was a little disturbed by her own disappointment. “Is he not into girls? Or humans? Or redheads?”

Krem laughed. “Oh, he's into all three. Redheads are his special weakness, actually. But not people he works with; he's got rules. Says it throws off the balance of trust, even when it doesn't go badly.”

“Good to know, then. Glad I won't have to be fending off unwanted advances,” she said, convincing neither Krem nor herself.

“Uh-huh.”

“Have you been with him long?”

“A while now.”

“You like him?”

“Yeah, of course. He's—well, what you see is what you get,” Krem said.

Ren frowned. “I don't see that. If anything, he seems like a lot more than what you see.”

“Ah, but that is what you get, then. If you were the kind of person who looked at him and saw a big dumb ox, that's what he'd be for you. If you're lucky, and you see more than that, then you get more. See what I mean?”

“Yes, I do. Hadn't thought of it that way before.” She looked at him curiously. “So the Tevinter/Qunari thing, that's not a problem?”

“Hasn't seemed to be. He likes to test me by insulting the Imperium whenever possible, but I don't have that many fond memories, so it doesn't bother me any.”

“What's it like? I've never been there.”

“The Imperium? Depends on who you are, I suppose. What about Ostwick? I've never been to the Free Marches.”

“Well, they're all different, the city-states. Ostwick is a port city. Lots of ships, and the smell of fish ...”

Krem made a disgusted sound. “Can't say I've ever found that smell too homey. The Chief does, though—you'll have a lot to talk about.”

“Good to know.” Ren turned around and looked backward, finding that single grey eye resting on her thoughtfully. He nodded at her, and she nodded back.

Krem asked her about the Inquisition forces, and they whiled away the rest of the ride talking about armor and weapons upgrades. Krem had some good ideas, and she was looking forward to introducing him to Harritt, their smith.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull climbed down from the wagon, groaning as he stretched his legs and looked around him. The camp at Haven was, if anything, more haphazard than he'd expected. The men drilling outside the gates looked like they were being taught by a professional, though, and they were working hard.

“It's not much, is it?” The Herald's voice said from behind him.

“Not yet.” 

“You've got more confidence than I do.” She was leaning one hip against the wagon wheel while some of the Chargers had started unloading. “Your people can set up camp here; I think there's enough space.”

“Should be plenty. You going to give me the guided tour?”

“Why not?” She smiled a little ruefully. “Coming in as a prisoner the way I did, I never got a tour; I just had to figure out where everything was myself. I think we can do better than that for you.”

“Prisoner? Oh, yes, because you fell out of the Breach.”

“Right. And between that and this—“ She held out her left hand, and he saw a green glow centered in her palm.

“What is that?”

“I wish I knew. But it closes the rifts in the sky, and we hope it can close the Breach. I had it when I was found after the Conclave, but I've got no memory of how it got there.”

“That must be disturbing.”

“You have no idea.” She clenched her fist, the glow disappearing.

It smacked of magic to the Iron Bull, and he couldn't say he loved magic, although he tried hard to be open-minded about it. “That why they call you the Herald of Andraste?”

“That and because someone said they saw a woman in the Fade behind me just before I fell out of it. They're saying the woman was Andraste.”

“And what are you saying?”

“I don't know! I don't remember any of it, anyway, and I'm ... hardly the type of person a god would choose as a herald on earth anyway. I don't even believe in Andraste, for that matter.” She stopped walking and turned and frowned at him. “This was supposed to be a tour, not a catechism.”

The Iron Bull grinned at her, and, she grinned back, albeit reluctantly.

“You're a good spy, then.”

“I get by.”

“So that big dumb ox thing ...” She winced. “Sorry. I meant that in the 'standard turn of phrase' way, not as a racial pejorative.”

He chuckled. “If I got pissed off every time someone used the word ox around me, you think I would have named myself the Iron Bull?”

“Good point. Fine, then, the big dumb ... bull thing, that's just an act?”

“It's handy. And what most people expect. People in the southern countries who have never seen a Qunari, anyway.”

“I've seen some Qunari in my time.”

“Dooley's Raiders, right?” The Herald sighed, frowning, and he nodded at her, amused. “Told you I knew more than you wanted me to.”

“Yeah, but you may be the only one, and I'd like to keep it that way. So I guess we find out right now how far I can trust you with my secrets, eh?”

The Iron Bull stopped walking, holding her blue eyes with his. “You can trust me, Morvoren.”

“Don't call me that.”

“You got it, boss.”

“I like that one. It's a lot better than 'Herald'.” She looked up at him thoughtfully. “So if we've established that there's a lot more to you than the cover story, what is behind the persona?”

He raised his eyebrow at her. “I'll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Ren chuckled. “Maybe someday. I like a good game of show-and-tell, but this is hardly the place, and probably not the time.”

“So until then, we're good? I'll swing the big sword, you'll close that damn Breach?”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan.” She winked at him. “I have to say, it won't suck having that view between me and things that are trying to kill me.”

She sauntered off, leaving him in the middle of camp. The Iron Bull tilted his head to the side, watching her walk away. It was a shame he had rules about going to bed with people he worked with; she seemed as though she could be a lot of fun in the sack. Still, he had to agree with her parting sentiment; having that view in front of him while he helped her save the world wouldn't suck. No question about it, she had a damn fine ass.


	4. In Haven

Ren found herself somewhat at loose ends in Haven; between them Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen seemed to run most everything there, and she had little to do other than listen to people talk. So she tried to make a good job of that, anyway, from Flissa behind the bar to Einar, the elven boy who acted as the camp page, to Mother Giselle. She figured maybe someday it would help that she'd spent so much time listening.

It wasn't her forte, though, and she wished for her daggers in her hands. She needed to get out of camp again for a while, she decided. Time to go check in on Master Dennett and the horses tomorrow.

She said as much to Leliana, strolling with the spymaster on their way to the daily War Room meeting. Ren wasn't certain why, other than the mark on her hand, she was included in those meetings, but she went along anyway, figuring it was a further exercise of her newfound listening skills.

Leliana nodded. “I agree. There is a Grey Warden in the Hinterlands, so I understand, and it would be good if you could find him. Perhaps you could discover if he knows what happened to his people. It is disturbing that they are all gone.”

“That news seems to have gotten around,” Ren said. “People are nervous. And frightened. Not that the Breach has anything to do with Grey Wardens—not that we know of, anyway—but I suppose people are used to seeing Grey Wardens as heroes.”

“Funny,” Leliana said softly, “I am used to seeing them as friends.” She shook her head. “But the practicalities are what we must concern ourselves with now, and the practicality is that it is more than the disappearance of the Grey Wardens that has people nervous and afraid.”

“You think?”

“What I think is that there is only one cure. Which is for the people to see that someone can save them.” She nodded pointedly toward Ren's hand. “And Fate, or Andraste, or the Maker, or sheer blind luck, one of those has chosen you to be that person.”

“I'm no hero.”

“Weren't you listening? The world thinks of heroes and sees the Hero of Ferelden, but to me she is a dear friend and a confidante. If you asked her, and I hope someday you can, she would tell you she is a soldier, and that is all she has ever been. If you speak to Varric of his friend Hawke ... well, much of the world does not see Hawke as a hero, but others do. I suspect Hawke himself would not think so. No, my dear, it does not matter in the least what you think of yourself—it is what you, we if you prefer, can make these people think that matters.” Leliana put her hand on the door of the War Room. “Give the idea some consideration.”

Ren wasn't sure she wanted to consider it. If someone had to step up to save the world, why not Leliana herself? She'd been there during the Blight, she knew how it was done. Ren would close the Breach, and she'd stab her daggers at demons and bandits and rogue mages and Templars and whatever else needed killing, but beyond that, her skills really weren't that useful.

Josephine unwittingly pointed up that fact after the meeting. “My Lady Trevelyan, can we speak in my office?”

“Only if you'll stop calling me that. My family would not approve of my continuing to use the title. It was part of the agreement when they bound me to the Chantry.”

“I see. Then perhaps my question is not so necessary.”

“What question was that?”

“Whether we could count on your family as our allies. We will need all that we can get.”

“Oh.” Ren sighed. “No, I can't imagine you could, really. In fact ... they don't know I'm here. It's possible they might think I died in the Conclave. I haven't felt any particular need to let them know I didn't.”

“Ah. Well, that is unfortunate. Never mind, then, I will simply find another way.” Josephine scratched something off the list she carried on her clipboard. “Are there any other noble houses we should avoid on your behalf?”

“Only the Pentaghasts.”

Josephine gave her a small smile. “I am aware of that entanglement, yes, although I believe the gentleman in question ended up marrying a wealthy noblewoman from the Anderfels. They have three sons. So I believe we can consider it water under the bridge. And possibly a fortunate escape for you, unless you have a yearning to be diapering three little boys.” The smile widened, and Ren laughed.

“No, thank you.”

“I have been meaning to ask, is your hut comfortable? I'm certain the accommodations aren't what you're used to.”

Ren studied the ambassador carefully, trying to decide if Josephine was being coy or not. She wanted to ask outright, but she was learning that some questions were best not asked, directly or otherwise. If Josephine knew about Ren's past with the Raiders, maybe she was pretending not to in order to paint Ren in a better light for their noble visitors. So instead of asking, Ren merely smiled. “I think the accommodations are splendid. Are they not to your liking?”

Josephine sighed wistfully. “Nicer sheets, perhaps, a warmer coverlet. Nothing one cannot do without if one must. Ah, there is Lady Rusignan. I must dash.” With a parting smile, she hurried off, and Ren went out into the camp.

As she was on her way to her hut, she ran into Krem.

“Herald.”

“Krem. How are you and the Chargers settling in? It seems a bit more lively around here since you've come.”

He grinned. “We do know how to have fun. Your people needed some teaching in that area.”

“Getting bored yet?”

“We could use a scrap, if you've got anything for us.”

“I'm not sure yet. Do you have any ideas?”

“Nothing jumps out at me.”

“All right. I'll put my head together with Cullen and see what we can come up with. Meanwhile, if you want to patrol near the Breach and keep an eye on whatever might come out of it, that could be helpful.”

“Sure. We can do that.” He smiled. “Good thing the Chief'll be with you, then. He's not too big on demons and things. Qunari are funny about magic. Scared of it.”

“Your Chief? Scared of magic? I have a hard time imagining him scared of anything.”

“Well, he wouldn't admit it, you understand, but there it is. He'll fight 'em, if that's what you're worried about—in my time with him, we've gone up against everything from bandits to magic trees, and he's never hesitated.”

“That's good,” Ren said. “There are lots of demons that cluster around the rifts I have to close.”

They were approaching the Chargers' encampment. Ren could see the horned figure—by now familiar to everyone in camp—and hear the equally familiar deep voice of the Iron Bull. He had been busy since the Chargers came in, working the camp much the way Ren herself did. He talked weapons with Cassandra, tactics with Cullen, spycraft with Leliana, storytelling with Varric, metallurgy with Harritt the smith ... the list went on. Despite the distrust with which most southerners viewed his people, he was universally liked; not an easy feat in a camp as diverse as Haven. Ren had to hand it to him, he did his job well.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Seeing the Herald approaching with Krem, the Iron Bull waved her over. It hadn't escaped his notice that they had been making parallel circuits of the camp, talking to people; in some ways, that had been deliberate on his part. He wanted to know what the people she worked with thought of her, what the people in Haven thought of the Inquisition, before he was widely known as being too closely associated with the Herald.

He'd gotten an earful. Mostly positive, but there was a lot of uncertainty in the people. No one understood what had happened to the Conclave, and few had any idea what the Herald's role was. They were clear that she was far more approachable than the rest of the Inquisition leadership, and that made her more than welcome among them, and she listened well, which worked in her favor.

What the Iron Bull hadn't decided yet was what his own role would be. The Ben-Hassrath wanted information, but they also wanted to make sure the Breach was closed and whatever disruption was going on here in the south was settled ... or they wanted to know that it was time for the Qunari to invade.

The Iron Bull was Qunari to the core, or so he told himself, but he could think of so few people he knew in the south who would survive conversion to the Qun. It was best for the Qunari to stay in the north, and leave the people of the south alone, and he would have to spin things to make sure that was the message that got sent.

“Hey, boss,” he said to the Herald as she got closer, “come pull up a keg.”

“Don't mind if I do.” She upended an empty one and perched on it next to him. “You all drink like this all the time, or are you bored and need something to do?”

“The Chargers are okay, but I could use the chance to kill something.”

“Good. We're off to the Hinterlands in the morning to see a man about some horses; we’ll almost certainly find some things to kill along the way.”

“You sure about that?”

“I think I can guarantee it.” She grinned. “Things just jump out at me and ask to be killed wherever I go. Must be my charming personality.”

“Or the daggers.”

“Could be those, I guess.”

“I look forward to seeing you in action again.”

“Same here.”

He looked past her to the training ground. “Your soldiers are coming along. Your Templar's training them well.”

“How did you know Cullen was a Templar? He doesn't wear the armor anymore.”

“Doesn't have to.” Everything about Cullen screamed Templar; the Iron Bull mentioned the first detail that came to his mind. “He angles his shield just a bit down, to deflect magic. Qunari learn the same trick when we train to fight Tevinter mages.”

“Not much gets past you, does it?”

“If it did, the Ben-Hassrath would find someone else to do this job.”

“Good point. You like it?”

“Which part?”

“Mercenary commander.”

He laughed. “I love it. Good food, good company, killing things ... what more can a person ask for?”

“Warmer weather?”

“Well, there is that. And the smell of the ocean.”

“Spindleweed helps there. I keep some in a vase by my bed. Makes the room smell a little more like home to me.”

The Iron Bull didn't mention that after he had seen her pluck some he had done the same. Still, it was nice to have something in common.

“How are your men fitting in with the rest of the Inquisition?” she asked.

“All right so far. A bit of chest-thumping on both sides, but that's normal. Don't worry about the Chargers, Krem and I'll keep them in line.” He glanced at her. “You know, the biggest problem you have here isn't with the men. They're doing good work, hard work, and they like it. It's at the top. You've got no leader.”

Ren frowned. “We've got too many leaders.”

“Boils down to the same thing. You've got an Inquisition, but no Inquisitor.”

“We've managed so far without one.”

He couldn't tell if she hadn't given this any thought, or if she had thought about it and was afraid of the answers. Either way, none of them could afford to have her bury her head in the sand. “That's because so far all you've needed to do is react. A group can handle that. But once the Breach is closed, the Inquisition is going to have to decide what it stands for. Someone's going to have to step up and give it a purpose, a direction.”

“You've thought about this.”

“A little.” He took a mug of ale from Krem and handed one to Ren.

“Who would you choose, then? You're new here, no preconceived notions ... that I know of.” She looked at him suspiciously.

The Iron Bull took a deep swallow of the ale, frowning. “Hard to say. See, the Qunari don't choose our leaders from the smartest or the strongest among us—we choose the one who can make the hard decisions ... and live with the consequences. Hard to say who that is here.”

Ren said, “That sounds like Leliana to me.”

“Maybe. But the armies wouldn't follow her.” He glanced at her with a shrug. “Ah, who knows. Maybe you seal the Breach, the Chantry gets off its ass, and we all go home and get fat.”

“That'll be the day,” she muttered into her mug, and he was glad to hear it. At least she was aware of the realities.

“It could happen,” he said. “It won't ... but it could.”

“To the 'could', then,” Ren said, tapping the edge of her mug against his, and the Iron Bull drank with her. He watched her speculatively over the rim of his tankard, thinking about it. She was smart, she understood how to get along with people from all walks of life, she was impatient enough to be decisive. She understood combat as both a soldier and a leader; she'd been raised as a noble, so she could be reminded how to deal with them. Spycraft she seemed to know nothing about, but he could teach her that.

Yes, the Iron Bull decided. That would be his role. He was going to make Morvoren Trevelyan into the Inquisitor—whether she liked it or not.


	5. The Job

The Iron Bull had been more impressed by Ren on their run through the Hinterlands than he would have expected. She had thrown herself into combat with wolves and demons and bandits and Templars and mages, and she'd been able to adapt her style to each one while keeping track of his movements and those of Cassandra and Solas.

Having already, it seemed, talked Cullen into having his soldiers build watchtowers for the farmers, she managed to persuade Horsemaster Dennett that the roads were safe enough that he could allow his horses to be used by the Inquisition, and she even got the old man to agree to find a horse big enough to suit a Qunari. The Iron Bull wished him luck, but Dennett didn't appear to lack confidence that he could accomplish such a feat.

In the process, Ren helped Solas hunt down an elven artifact, talked everyone she met who seemed to be at loose ends into joining the Inquisition and putting their skills to work, and closed several rifts in the sky. And she seemed to take it all in stride, as if every odd request, every new nest of demons, were just what she had expected. Yes, she would make a fine Inquisitor, he decided.

The Iron Bull was glad he had been the one selected for this duty by the Ben-Hassrath; it was a nice change of pace from what he'd been doing before, and those rifts scared the shit out of him. He was happy to be helping to get them closed. And he was certainly far better for the Inquisition than anyone else the Ben-Hassrath would have brought in.

It rained the last night they were out. They were bedding down with the troops in one of the Hinterlands camps, and had all shared a communal meal of some kind of stew. Not bad, if you ate it quickly. Solas had taken to his tent immediately after the meal, and Cassandra had taken first watch with some of the soldiers, which left the Iron Bull standing with Ren under a rock overhang, listening to the rain fall. Enjoying the sound was something they appeared to have in common; it was very comfortable to be standing here with her listening as the rain pattered on the trees and the ground.

After a few minutes Ren pulled a flask out of an inside pocket of her leather coat. “Peach brandy,” she said. “A gift from Flissa at the tavern.” She took a swig and offered him some.

It was good, warming him all through. “Flissa would like to give you a lot more than peach brandy,” he said, watching her. So far he hadn’t seen her show much of an interest in anyone, which he applauded, given her situation, but as a spy, he thought he ought to know where her interests lay.

Ren sighed. “I know she would.”

“You should take her up on it; all work and no play is bad, so they tell me.”

“I couldn't take advantage of her like that. She'd want it to mean something. It's the problem with this whole Herald of Andraste thing.” Ren glanced at him, her blue eyes studying his face intently. “Isn't 'all work and no play' the Qunari marching song?”

“Something like that.”

“Is that how you ended up so far from home? Because you weren't suited to that life?”

The Iron Bull frowned. “I was a special case. They sent me to Seheron initially because they needed someone who could fight and hunt down problems. Seheron's a sack of cats, Tal-Vashoth and Tevinters and native rebels all fighting to get on top, and there I was stuck in the middle, trying to restore order.” He tried not to think of those days too often.

“How'd that work out for you?” Her tone said she’d already guessed the answer.

“About as well as you'd expect. I hunted down a lot of rebels, lost a lot of friends. One morning I woke up and couldn't think of a single damn reason to get up and do my job.”

“So what did you do?”

“I turned myself in to the reeducators.” 

“Reeducators?”

“Just what they sound like.” He knew what most people thought of the Qunari, and the reeducators were a prime symbol of everything southerners hated and—with good reason—feared. But they served a purpose, and they had helped him through a dark time. “Qunari are bred for certain tasks. If you can't do your task any longer, you're reeducated to a new one.”

“And you gave yourself to them, not knowing what might happen to you?” She shivered, but her next words surprised him. “That couldn't have been easy for you; not many people would have had the courage.”

He shrugged, not entirely comfortable with her praise. “I thought about letting some rebel kill me, but I didn't want to give the bastards the satisfaction. So I went through the program and was ordered to go to Orlais, ostensibly as a Tal-Vashoth, and work undercover.”

“I've gone up against some Tal-Vashoth, back when I was with the raiders,” Ren said. “You're nothing like them.”

The Iron Bull chuckled. “Then you're more observant than most southerners. They can't tell the difference.”

“Between you and someone who's only out for blood and money?” She frowned. “I apologize on behalf of my stupid fellow southerners, then.”

“Better that way, really. Easier to maintain my cover.”

“Except that you keep telling people about it, so how does that help?”

“Sometimes the best way to hide is in plain sight.”

She met his gaze, her eyes practically demanding an honest answer. “Is that what you're doing, hiding in plain sight?”

“Not from you.” He had meant to say more, to explain that hiding wasn't necessary because everyone wanted the same thing, but as they looked at each other, here in the darkness with only the sound of the rain around them, an awareness crackled unexpectedly between them and drove everything else out of his head. 

“Well, I'm glad you're here,” she said, a little breathless, as if she felt it, too.

“Me, too.” If they didn't work together, he'd have been kissing her right now, tangling his fingers in that glorious shining red hair and tilting her head back, his other hand cupping the rounded flesh of that spectacular ass. And she would have let him, would have kissed him back, up on her toes for a better angle. He could practically taste it. He sighed inwardly, knowing the job—both his and hers—was more important than a single night's tumble, no matter how tempting. 

Ren turned away abruptly, breaking the moment. “If you ever want to talk more, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks.”

He stayed where he was, watching her walk to her tent.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren kept her distance from the Iron Bull on the way back to Haven the next day. It had been a long time since she had been with anyone, and as long as she remained the Herald of Andraste, it appeared it would be a while longer. She didn't necessarily adhere to the Iron Bull's no sex with people she worked with policy, but she did have strict rules about not promising more than she could deliver ... and while there were people in camp who would be happy to join her in her hut, they would want more than a night of fun.

Nonetheless, a long dry spell, and the prospect of it getting longer, was no reason to put the moves on the only person she really felt comfortable being herself around. Not that he wasn't interested; thinking about the almost predatory look in his eye last night gave her some very pleasant shivers even in the light of day. But it wasn't worth it, she told herself firmly. He would make a better ally than a lay. Never mind the broad shoulders, the deep tone of his voice that was soothing and exciting in her ears at the same time, the tightly leashed power in his big body and what that might feel like in her bed. Perhaps she wasn't supposed to notice all that because he was a Qunari—maybe the greyness of his skin and the horns on his head and the subtle strangeness of his speech were supposed to counterbalance the attraction, but Ren found them all fascinating instead.

And she had no business doing so, she reminded herself. No business at all. Resolutely, she turned her attention to the newest member of their group, the Grey Warden Blackwall, who had decided to ally himself with the Inquisition in the absence of the rest of his order. Blackwall had spent the better part of the last decade alone, so it was a challenge bringing him out of his shell, and Ren was glad for the distraction.

They arrived in Haven and were immediately accosted by Varric, who had apparently been working with Krem to set up a Wicked Grace tournament in the tavern. Blackwall and Solas and Cassandra begged off, but Ren and the Iron Bull agreed to play

“What did we ever do for entertainment without the Chargers in camp?” she asked Varric between rounds. Ren was a fairly good Wicked Grace player, but she'd allowed herself to be knocked out early so she could make the rounds of the other matches and watch the players for tells that might help her in the next tournament.

“Good question. Nice to have some people around who don't take themselves so sodding seriously,” Varric said. He shook his head. “I tried to get Curly and Ruffles to play, but apparently Wicked Grace is beneath their dignity.”

“Curly and Ruffles? You can't possibly mean Cullen and Josephine—they wouldn't answer to those nicknames, would they?”

“Maybe someday.” Varric grinned. “A dwarf can dream.”

“Why aren't you playing, anyway?” she asked him.

“Krem and I decided if we were running the thing, no fair to play, too. Next time someone else can take charge and I can show you all my spectacular cheating skills.”

“What about you, Krem?” she asked as he came by. “You cheat spectacularly, too?”

“Nah. Cheating's the mark of a small mind.”

“Hey!” Varric said, offended.

“That's what the Chief says.” Krem grinned. “He's winning, as usual.”

Ren followed his glance reluctantly to the corner where the Iron Bull sat. He appeared to be enjoying himself hugely. His mug of ale was refilled every time he sipped from it by one of two very attentive serving girls.

“He wins without cheating?” Varric asked. “That's a violation of the very spirit of Wicked Grace.”

“You tell him that sometime.”

Ren glanced out the windows. It was getting late in the afternoon; the War Room meeting would be starting before too long, and she would be asked to report in on how things had gone in the Hinterlands.

But in the meantime, she had to admit to some curiosity. Turning to Krem, she asked, “So how did a Tevinter end up as second-in-command of a Qunari spy's mercenary company, anyway?”

Krem glanced at the Iron Bull with affection. “The big ass saved my life.”

“Sounds like a smart move to me,” Varric said.

“He didn't even know me at the time.” Krem shook his head. “It was a tavern like this one, on the borders of Tevinter. I was in ... a spot of trouble, trying to get out of the country, when a tribune and his company found me and decided to make an example of me. Bull killed them; gave up his eye in the process. Patched me up, asked me if I'd like to join his company.” He chuckled. “I've been putting up with his jokes ever since.”

“That's how he lost the eye?” Ren resisted, just barely, the urge to turn and look more closely. She'd wondered about that. The Iron Bull acted as though he had two good eyes, and she had to admit it surprised her a little that the eyepatch wasn't a cover.

“The tribune and his men had me on the floor,” Krem said softly, the memory clearly still vivid. “Bull came in and yelled for them to stop. One of them decided to finish me off instead, and he came at me with a flail. Bull put himself between me and the blow. Big horned idiot; he didn't even know me.”

As if Ren had needed anything to make her like him more.

Krem looked at her. “Every one of the Chargers would lay down our lives for the big dummy if he needed it.”

“I get that,” Ren assured him. “I'll do my best to keep him out of trouble.”

“Not an easy task.”

“No.”

“Your Heraldness,” Varric said abruptly, “don't you have a meeting to attend?”

She sighed quietly, about to complain that she didn't know why she sat in, since she never got the chance to give an opinion anyway ... but the assembled company in the tavern didn't need to hear that, for multiple reasons, and instead she thanked Varric for the reminder and headed for the Chantry.

The meeting had just begun, and Cassandra gave her a brief nod before resuming an argument with Leliana about which faction they should be allying themselves with, the mages or the Templars.

Ren listened for a while, trying to catch up to the lay of the land. Cullen and Cassandra were in support of the Templars; Leliana of the mages. Josephine seemed to think either direction had its pitfalls.

Leaning against the wall, Ren considered the two options herself. “The mages' power can help close the Breach more efficiently than the Templars'. Our troops might be more comfortable fighting alongside mages than fighting against them, which it seems likely to come to if we don't— What?” she asked, noticing they were all looking at her. Only then did she realize she had been speaking aloud.

“Please continue, Herald,” Cullen said courteously, watching her with interest. It was the first time she had really expressed an opinion of her own in one of these meetings, so cowed had she been by the collective experience and authority amongst the others.

“I was just saying ... with the mages allied with this Venatori cult out of Tevinter now, we seem likely to have to fight them if we don't go try to do something about allying with them, and our people would do better fighting alongside mages than against them. Plus, a Tevinter cult gaining a foothold in Ferelden—whatever the Templars are up to, can it be as bad as that? One way or another, we have to do something about the Tevinters, and better to be seen as doing something proactive—we'd look better to the king of Ferelden that way.”

“Alistair would be disposed to look on us kindly anyway,” Leliana said, “but you are right, he would appreciate not having to fight a war with Tevinter if we can help with that. This Magister who has taken over Redcliffe has asked to speak with you alone, Herald.”

“We can't allow that,” Cullen said. “She would be unsupported; what can one person, or a small group if she takes assistance, do against a village full of Tevinters and the mages who might fight for them?”

“The mages don't want to be there,” Ren said. “I talked to enough of them to know that they don't understand why Grand Enchanter Fiona agreed to the alliance; I think they'll fight for us if they have the chance.”

“And I think I know a way we can get our people into the castle quietly, if the Herald will provide a distraction,” Leliana said. “There's a way we used during the Blight, when the castle was overrun with undead.”

Cullen looked at Ren, and for the first time she felt the weight of responsibility. “We cannot force you to do this,” he said.

“I know. I want to.” She turned to Cassandra. “We'll take the mage Dorian, since he seems to know so much about this Alexius—and better keep him close at hand in case this is some long game he's playing on both sides—and the Iron Bull, if you'll accompany me.”

“Of course, Herald.” Cassandra nodded. “It will be my honor.”


	6. After the Future

The Iron Bull stood outside the Chantry, his arms crossed over his chest. He was rather shamelessly flirting with one of the camp's washerwomen across the muddy expanse of road; flirting with smile and glance and a certain air of possibility rather than with any words, because the real reason he was standing here was to eavesdrop on the heated conversation going on just inside the Chantry doors.

He hadn't been the only one stunned and not a little disappointed by Ren's sudden decision to accept the mages as full allies of the Inquisition rather than as the Inquisition's prisoners. Cassandra had been white-knuckled with anger, and Cullen's reaction on their return to Haven had been explosive. The Iron Bull had to give Ren credit, though—she had stood up to everyone's disapprobation staunchly and without any indication that she was regretting the decision.

The Vint mage had been pleased, and he had had Ren's ear since he arrived in Haven. The Iron Bull didn't like that; he had a healthy distrust of any Vint he didn't know well, and this one was ... too smooth, too pretty. The pretty ones were always the most dangerous, in the Iron Bull’s experience.

Cullen was trying to keep his temper in check and not argue too openly with Ren and her decision, but he was having a hard time doing so. Why they hadn't moved the conversation to the War Room was beyond the Iron Bull, but he wasn't complaining.

“Look,” Ren said finally, hotly, “I've said before that the rest of the mages didn't choose to ally with the Tevinters. That was Grand Enchanter Fiona's idea, and she has been stripped of her title and her authority over the rest of them. The other mages deserve the chance to determine their own fate; don't we all? Isn't that what we're here for? And I, for one, would rather fight at the side of a willing mage than in front of or behind one who's being forced to fight for us against his or her own inclinations.”

There was silence following this outburst, and then Cullen's voice again. “What of you, Cassandra? Surely you can't agree with this decision?”

The Iron Bull raised his eyebrow at the washerwoman, letting a little smile play across his face, and she blushed and giggled fetchingly. He was quite interested in hearing what Cassandra had to say—she had held herself in on the way back from Redcliffe impressively well. To his surprise, she said, somewhat stiffly, “I ... do not agree with the Herald's decision—but I support it.”

That pretty much killed the rest of the argument. The Iron Bull could practically hear the silent conversation going on between the three advisors, and he couldn't help a very satisfied smile when he heard Cullen invite Ren into the next War Room meeting as a full-fledged member of the ruling council. The washerwoman thought the smile was for her, and he let her think so.

The Iron Bull didn't pretend to understand what had happened to Ren in Redcliffe. One moment she'd been standing there facing off against the magister, who appeared to have the upper hand, and the next she had clearly won. She had seemed to age five years in between those two moments, and the story she and the Vint mage had told about being sent forward in the future sounded legitimately freaky enough to accomplish such a change.

She and the Vint had all but clung to each other ever since. Not that the Iron Bull was jealous. No. But he had grown used to his conversations with her, and he missed them. That much he could admit to, surely. Even if he couldn't quite bring himself to admit that he was standing here less because he wanted to hear the argument and its eventual result and more because he hoped to catch her alone, if only for a few minutes, to reassure himself that she had come out of the ordeal in Redcliffe able to handle whatever was still ahead of them.

Yes, that was what it was. The desire to make sure the Herald of Andraste was still able to fulfill the tasks before her. He smiled at the washerwoman again, just to convince himself.

And then proceeded to forget all about her when the Chantry doors opened and Ren came out, alone for a change.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren hadn't seen the Iron Bull standing outside the Chantry, and she jumped, startled, when he suddenly fell in beside her. “How can someone as big as you are actually sneak up on people?”

“Seems to me that says more about you than it does about me,” he pointed out. “If you didn't see me you must have been distracted by some deep thoughts.”

“I was,” she admitted.

“Want to talk about it?” 

She did, but she wasn't sure if she knew what to say that wouldn't be ... awkward. If she closed her eyes, she could still see the red glow in his eye in that horrible future world, still smell the haunting, somehow compelling scent of the red lyrium that had permeated all of Redcliffe Castle, and the very thought made her sick.

“Still thinking about what happened in Redcliffe,” the Iron Bull said. It wasn't a question.

“It's hard not to think about it. I don't even know who this Elder One is, but he was well on his way to destroying the world.”

“All because of the Vints in southern Ferelden?” He sounded skeptical. Ren hated to confirm his view of southerners as soft, but it did seem as though they had all folded rather quickly in the face of this Elder One.

“It wasn't just that, though,” Ren said. “They'd assassinated the Empress of Orlais and taken over there, too, and there were demons in their army. You—future you—told me I was better off having died than having had to fight the demon army. And if anything could make you think death was better than fighting, it must have been damned tough.”

He nodded to acknowledge the implied compliment. “You give any thought to the idea that it was blood magic messing with your mind?”

“No.” There was no hesitation in her, no question of what she had seen. “It was real. If someone doesn't stop him, that future is real.” They were nearing her hut now, the small clearing empty, and she turned to look up at him. “Look, I know you don't agree with my bringing on the mages as allies. If that's a deal-breaker, and you and the Chargers want to pull out, no hard feelings.”

He blinked in surprise, a strong reaction for him. “I'm pretty sure I said I was here until the Breach was closed. I give you any reason to think I was going to bail as soon as you said something I didn't agree with?”

He was offended; she could hear it in his voice. “No,” Ren said. “It's just ... that future, the red lyrium. You were ... infused with it. Your eye was red. Cassandra, too. It was growing out of Fiona's body! If ... if I wasn't convinced that it was my disappearance that led to it all, I might be the first one down off this mountain. I couldn't blame anyone else for not wanting to stay to see if I can keep that future from happening.”

His eye held her gaze, something softening in the steely grey depth. “How far you think you'll get against this Elder One asshole if everyone runs out on you?”

“You don't understand.” She couldn't help seeing those last moments in her mind's eye. She hadn't seen Cassandra die; she hadn't seen the final snap of Leliana's neck ... but she had seen him. The demons had thrown him through the door like a rag doll, limp and bloody, his horns broken. “You ... you died.”

“And you think I'd rather live?”

“Wouldn't you?”

“Boss, people die in war. You know that; if you're not prepared to lose people when you go into battle, you put them in more danger.”

“Yes, I know ... but I've never asked anyone to die for me. I'm not— I'm no one to die for.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her intently. “Don't say that again. Ever. All these people are here because they think the cause you lead is worth fighting for, and you are someone worth fighting for ... and when people fight, sometimes they die. If you say you're not worth dying for, you make a mockery of what all these people are willing to do.”

Ren took a deep breath. “You're right. I hadn't thought of it that way. I just ... I suppose I don't want anyone's blood on my hands, but it looks like I have that either way.”

“You've got good people; if they trust you to take your place at the War Table, if people like Varric and Vivienne and me are here following you, then you need to have as much faith in yourself as we have. That's the only way this works.”

She mustered a smile, trying to banish the memory of the future that hadn't happened yet. “Thank you, Bull.”

He nodded approvingly, letting her go. “Anytime, boss. You want me to have the Chargers go check out what's going on with the Templars at Therinfal Redoubt?”

“That's a good idea, yeah.” Ren could still feel the imprint of his big hands on her shoulders, and she turned away toward her hut before she said anything she might regret later.


	7. His Infernal Rightness

On her way to the tavern after a long day of training and impressing the visiting nobility, Ren passed by two of the washerwomen whispering to one another. She couldn't help hearing the words “Iron Bull,” followed by a giggle, and although she despised herself for it, she paused, ostensibly plucking some elfroot leaves, to listen.

“What?” said one of the washerwomen. “I just went to his tent last night, to ... thank him. He's had his healer assisting with the sick and injured, and they've helped a lot of people. So ... I thanked him.”

“Is that why you're walking funny?” said the other one.

“Well, I thanked him a few times, and then he thanked me back. There was all sorts of gratitude going on.” They both giggled, and Ren plucked the plant convulsively out of the ground by the root. Since it wasn't actually elfroot, she felt no compunction about tossing it aside, berating herself for stopping at all.

What had she hoped to gain by listening to that? She knew how many women—and some men—followed him with their eyes, and she certainly didn't blame him for taking advantage of the opportunities literally being thrown his way. She didn't even disagree with the basic premise of not sleeping with someone you were supposed to trust to be watching your back in combat rather than ogling it. But she was in the middle of the longest dry spell of her life, and she couldn't seem to quash her growing attraction to the Iron Bull, and it was all highly frustrating.

And yet, when she entered the tavern and found him there at the back table, and he lifted his mug and shouted, “Pull up a chair, boss!”, did Ren turn around and leave, the way a sensible woman would have? She did not. She accepted a mug, pulled up a chair, and did her level best to pretend she wasn't lonely and frustrated and wishing for things she couldn't have.

If she had only known it, the Iron Bull was none too comfortable in his own mind about the situation. He'd enjoyed the fruits of his flirtation with the washerwoman ... up until the moment he'd closed his eye and found himself imagining she was the Herald of Andraste. He'd come pretty damn hard under the influence of that particular unexpected fantasy, but that didn't make it a good idea. That wasn’t the Qunari way, to bring personal feelings into the sex act; sex was more like a mutual contract of fulfillment than anything else, and the washerwoman should have been enough.  
And even if his training had allowed for a more personal experience during sex, Ren had enough on her plate without rumors going around that she was sleeping with a Qunari, and he knew perfectly well that they didn't have to actually exchange any bodily fluids for such a rumor to start. If he knew what was good for both of them, and the Inquisition—and he did—he would be keeping his distance.

So why was he calling her over to his table? It had been a moment of weakness, and one he ought to regret more than he did. But there was no question he liked being around her, and surely with Krem and Varric and Dorian all at the table, as well, they couldn't give rise to any rumors.

Ren thought the same thing. When Krem and Dorian left with Varric to get a sneak peek at the next chapter of Swords & Shields, she told herself it was her cue to head out, too ... and she might have done so if it hadn't been for the serving girl, who had been flirting with the Iron Bull all night. And while Ren could accept that she wasn't going to be going anywhere with him, or with anyone, it was more than she could humanly put up with to get up and leave the table and let the serving girl have her way with him.

Instead, she called for another round, leaned her elbows on the table, and said the first thing that came to her mind. “Tell me about growing up Qunari.”

The Iron Bull raised his eyebrow. “You writing a book?”

“No. I leave that to Varric. But it's your culture, and I'd ... like to know you better.”

He narrowed his eye, trying to decide where she was going with this. “You could just ask.”

“I am,” she pointed out.

“Right.” He sighed. Not that he objected to staying and talking with her, but it was always tricky explaining the Qun to southerners. “What do you want to know?”

“Krem said the Qunari don't know who their mothers are—are children taken away from their parents, then?”

“It's not really like that. Qunari are bred, they don't have families the way southerners do, so all the children of similar ages are raised together by the tamassrans. As the children get older, the tamassrans help figure out what jobs they should do.” He smiled. “I was pegged for military service from an early age.” 

“Did you beat up all the other boys in your group?”

“You got it, boss. Later they figured out I could hit stuff and lie, so they started training me for the Ben-Hassrath.”

“That must have been a good day for you.”

“Yeah.” He frowned, trying to explain. “It's like ... being a block of stone, with a sculptor working on you. One day all the crap falls off and you know exactly what you were meant to be.”

Ren frowned, too, trying to imagine it. “I don't think I've ever felt that way. Maybe I'm still the block of stone, trying to work out my own shape.”

“See, if you were Qunari, you'd already know.”

“I suppose.” The serving girl was getting ready to swoop in and grab the half-empty mugs, and Ren hastily asked about everyday life under the Qun.

The Iron Bull shrugged. This was where he felt most southerners had only the sketchiest understanding of what the Qun really entailed. “It's the same as everywhere for most people. A baker in Val Royeaux has pretty much the same problems as a baker in Par Vollen—will they have enough eggs, will the dough rise, that kind of thing.”

“It can't be exactly the same—I thought the Qunari were more ... regimented.”

“Not really. I mean, you can't regiment the bread dough. It mixes the same no matter where you live.” He knew what she was getting at, though, and he couldn't help scowling a little. He had hoped for better from her. “Sure, the baker in Val Royeaux is free to be something else tomorrow, if he wants, but if he's been trained to be a baker, how successful do you think he'll be as a banker, or a mercenary? You southerners like to talk about freedom like it's free, but it comes at a cost, and a lot of the time that cost is paid in failure, and in death, and more often than you want to admit, it's paid by the baker's wife and children, who didn't have the freedom to make the decision in the first place.”

Ren bit back the denial that rose to her lips, really thinking about what he'd said. “All right, you have a point. But if the baker in Par Vollen doesn't have a wife and children to start with, then there's no particular virtue in following the set path. It's just ... lack of thought, letting someone else determine the course of your life.”

“And that's not what happens in the south?” He nodded toward the mark on her hand. “Who determined the course of your life, Herald of Andraste?”

“I'm an unusual case.”

“That's debatable.” He looked around the room. “I could point to any one of the people here in Haven and tell you how their 'choices' weren't theirs at all, but you would still call it freedom.”

“All right, then, tell me this.” She leaned across the table, looking at him intently. “If the Ben-Hassrath called you back to Par Vollen, told you to give up the Bull's Chargers and prepare to be reeducated, would you go?”

He shrugged, but he looked uncomfortable about it. “What choice would I have? Other than declare myself Tal-Vashoth and desert the Qun.”

“Would you do it?”

The Iron Bull frowned. It was hard to say, really, without the situation actually being put in front of him, and those damnably direct blue eyes of hers made it very difficult to evade the question. “I don't know,” he said. “Okay? I don't know.”

Ren nodded, satisfied that she had made her point, although she wasn't completely sure what the point was. “Do you ever think about what would happen if the Qunari conquered Orlais, or Ferelden?”

If possible, he disliked this direction of conversation more than the freedom one, because the answers were so stark. “Some folks would do fine, like Cullen or Cassandra ... except they'd die fighting. The mages—well, you know what Qunari do to mages. And our mages are all lippy enough they might just be killed outright. Speaking of lippy, Varric and Sera would both be reeducated, drugged and tortured until their minds broke. Leliana would probably be killed; too dangerous. And Josephine ... she might do all right.” He looked at her across the table, hoping she wouldn't ask about the only name he'd left off the list. “So, no, I don't think about it much at all.”

She didn't leave it there, asking the question anyway. “And me?”

“Don't ask me that,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Ren looked away. She'd had to ask, hadn't she? They were silent for a few minutes, and he shifted, picking up his mug and draining the last of the ale in it.

“Any other questions?” he asked. “'Cause I'm going to head out.”

“Good. I'll go with you.” Ren got up, too, and walked out with him, resisting the temptation to look back at the disappointed serving girl.

The camp was quiet as they walked through it. The Iron Bull wondered if she had exhausted her store of questions yet. He told himself he wanted her to, that he was annoyed with her for messing up what he had going with the serving girl, but the truth was that tomorrow night the serving girl would be there again, and Ren probably wouldn't, and of the two there was no question which one he would rather spend time with.

“If Qunari don't have families the way we do, does that mean there's no marriage, either?” Ren asked abruptly.

He could have thought of more comfortable lines of discussion, but he'd follow this one if that's where she wanted to go. “Right. Qunari love our friends like anyone else ... but we don't have sex with them,” he said, deliberately being discouraging.

She looked at him skeptically. “Qunari don't have sex?”

He laughed. “Oh, we have sex. There are tamassrans willing to pop your cork whenever you feel like it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It's like ... going to a healer. You know, sometimes it's this long, involved thing, takes all day, leaves you walking funny; other times it's more ... in and out in five minutes, 'Thank you, see you again next week!', type of thing.”

Ren stopped walking, looking up at him searchingly. “So ... you're saying you've never really made love?”

He stopped, too, and they stood looking at each other in the light of the lanterns. “There's a difference?” he asked, a question that would have sounded more flip and dismissive, the way he had intended, if it hadn't come out sounding like he wanted her to show him the difference. Which he didn't.

“Yeah, there's a difference. Or so I'm told,” Ren added, because she couldn't honestly say she'd ever made love, either, never truly connected with someone in both body and soul. And that wouldn't be what would happen even if things were different between them, she told herself. She should go, she told herself further. Her hut was right behind them, and she should turn around and go there. Alone.

Instead, she stayed where she was. “Bull.”

He put a hand on the top of her head, his thumb stroking the shining red hair, thinking of how easy it would be right now to tilt her head back and lean down ... Slowly, he shook his head. “No.” Then, more forcefully, he said it again. “No." He pulled his hand away from her hair as if it was actually on fire. "Good-night, boss.”

“Good-night.” Ren watched him go, sighing inwardly. He was right, she told herself. But she would be tossing and turning and punching her pillow a lot tonight, cursing his infernal rightness.

Unbeknownst to her, so would the Iron Bull.


	8. Buried in the Snow

There was a festive atmosphere in camp, everyone dancing and singing and drinking. The Breach was closed. After all the work of getting to that point, it had taken remarkably little effort to seal it once and for all compared to what most of them had expected. It had still taken a lot out of Ren, though, clearly—she was gamely trying to conceal her exhaustion, but the shadows under her blue eyes had to be evident to anyone who looked at her.

The Iron Bull hung back, not wanting to crowd her. But he couldn't help wondering what would come next. What purpose did the Inquisition serve now that the Breach was closed? There would be rifts to close here and there, but would it mostly be clean-up, or would the Inquisition go on to plead the cause of mages everywhere, or to find the Grey Wardens?

He wondered if those questions were the ones plaguing Ren as she stood watching the camp, talking quietly with Cassandra. Then he saw her head come up, her whole body stilling, and he looked past her to see what she had seen—the lanterns of an approaching army on the move.

Moments later, the alarms started ringing.

A young man arrived at the gates, a strange-looking boy in a giant floppy hat who appeared half-dead and was babbling on about the Elder One, who led the army that was toiling up the mountain. The Elder One wanted Ren, angered at the way she had caused the failure of his plans both at the Conclave and at Redcliffe.

The army in question comprised the entirety of the Templar Order, heavily altered by the consumption of red lyrium. The Iron Bull saw Ren and the Vint mage Dorian exchanging distressed looks when they saw the Templars getting closer, and he guessed that this was the kind of shit they had seen when they went forward into the future at Redcliffe.

Well, this was no future he wanted any part of. He was happy to charge into battle against these red Templars and swing his blade against them. He was even happy to have the Vint and the other mages along, with their big destructive spells taking out swaths of the Templars.

And it was almost enough. They got the trebuchets in motion, pounding at the hills and sending waves of snow down on the approaching Templar army. It seemed to be working ... until a giant fucking dragon swooped down from the darkened sky, shrieking and beating its wings, and the residents of Haven fled into the Chantry, the only defensible structure in the village.

Ren was the last one in, having taken her time and collected as many stragglers as she could, breaking into burning buildings and dragging people out bodily when necessary.

She looked to Cullen for guidance, and for some kind of last, desperate plan, but Haven had never been intended as a fortress. Cullen had done the best he could with it, but you couldn't defend it for any length of time, and certainly not from a dragon. The Iron Bull wasn't surprised when the last thing Cullen had left was to sell their lives as dearly as they could. He'd always thought that deep down Cullen was ready to give it all up; that was a man who had seen enough in his life to last him for eternity. The defection of the Templars to this Corypheus asshole, this Elder One, had been the last straw.

Then the strange young man, Cole, spoke up on behalf of Chancellor Roderick, the Chantry brother who had been hanging around and complaining constantly since before the Iron Bull had joined the Inquisition. Roderick was wounded, too badly to speak for himself, but Cole could apparently read his mind, which the Iron Bull found creepy as shit.

Through Cole, Roderick told them all about a hidden path up the mountain behind Haven. The Iron Bull supposed that just went to show you never spurned a resource, even one who had spent months on end calling the Herald of Andraste names, or, for that matter, one who showed up at the gate just ahead of an attacking army. The Iron Bull could see Cullen's embrace of death ease, see his agile mind turn to ways to cover the escape of the Inquisition's people. All of the options meant that someone had to stand against Corypheus and his dragon to give the rest of the Inquisition time to escape. The Iron Bull intended to speak up and offer to do so himself, but before he could ... Ren did.

“I'm the one he wants,” she said. “I'll go and see if I can fire that last trebuchet, trigger one last avalanche that hopefully will bury that thing.”

“What of your escape?” Cullen asked, and with a sinking heart the Iron Bull saw her face. There was no hope in it; she was resigned to the idea of giving up her life in the service of the Inquisition.

His respect for her and his pride in her had never been stronger. Neither had his despair. “I'm going with you,” he said. “You can't stand against a dragon alone.”

“So am I.” The Vint mage was at his shoulder, standing firm in the crisis. Maybe the Iron Bull had been wrong about this one; maybe he wasn't a Vint so much as he was just Dorian.

The scrape of Cassandra's blade against the scabbard as she drew it spoke for her.

Ren looked at the three of them. “No. I won't have the Inquisition lose you, too.”

“Boss,” the Iron Bull said, “where you go, I go.”

He held her gaze firmly, and she sighed and looked away. “Fine. But when I call retreat, you guys hustle back here and get the Void out of Haven.”

The four of them waded through the Templars filling Haven, and then he and Cassandra and Dorian held the Templars off while Ren loaded and aimed the last trebuchet. Before she could get the shot off, the dragon appeared, high in the sky above them.

“Let's go!” she shouted, and they started moving. It wasn't until they reached the doors of the Chantry that the Iron Bull realized she wasn't behind him any longer. He couldn't believe she had tricked him that way—he knew her thought processes as well as he knew his own, and it had to have been deliberate, to save her companions at the expense of her own life. He turned to go back; he wasn't leaving her out there facing down a fucking dragon by herself. But Krem was there, hanging on to his arm.

“Chief, you'll never get back there in time. She's already gone, if she stayed to face off against that dragon. Best thing we can do now is stay with the Inquisition and go kill that thing later.”

He shot a stricken glance at the doors. Krem was right ... but leaving her behind was a lot harder than he would ever have expected it to be. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to kill Corypheus.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren was glad to see them all disappear into the distance. She felt better knowing no one else had to die for her. The Haven villagers and Inquisition soldiers who had already fallen were enough; too much, really.

She stood her ground against the dragon, and then against the tall ... thing that came toward her. He looked like the descriptions she had read of darkspawn, only larger, and angrier. And glowing with the red lyrium.

And he was angry at her, specifically, for something she had done at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, something she didn't even remember, something she did at the Conclave that gave her the green mark on her hand. He called it the Anchor, and he wanted it back.

He had an orb that somehow called to the mark, her whole arm turning green and fiery with pain. It was as much as Ren could do to stand up against the agony. This Elder One, this Corypheus, was trying to pull the Anchor out of her body, and the Anchor was true to its name and refused to be pulled.

He lifted her by the arm; the pain was so great now she couldn't resist. All she could do was hang there limply in his grasp. For a moment, she thought he might cut the arm off to get the Anchor, and she would have welcomed its loss if it meant an end to the pain. And then with a cry of rage he threw her across the clearing.

Ren landed on the platform of the trebuchet, the wind and the sense knocked out of her. She lay there staring at the creature as he came closer. He wanted to kill her. She reached for a sword that lay in front of her, lifting it, getting to her feet with difficulty. She wasn't going to lie down for this; she was going to face him on her feet, a weapon in her hand.

In a moment of clarity she realized where she was—the mechanism of the trebuchet was within reach. She could launch it, bring down the mountain on all of them, on as many of his men as were still here. Her only hope was that her people were safely out of the Chantry and in the mountains above Haven, above the track of the avalanche that was about to come down on their heads.

She kicked the mechanism, and the trebuchet fired. Corypheus shrieked in anger, and as she ran, trying to get as much distance as she could before the avalanche hit, the dragon caught up Corypheus and flew away with him.

The blast of the oncoming snow threw Ren through some boards and into a hole in the ground, and she knew nothing more for a long time.

She came to in some kind of underground tunnel, lying there motionless for a few minutes while she took stock of what parts of her still worked. It seemed she wasn't too badly injured. Her left arm appeared to be wrenched, at least, although not broken, she thought, and there was some pain in her ribs when she breathed. Her ears were ringing. But overall, she could walk, she somehow still had her daggers in their sheaths on her back, and she could see about trying to find her way out of the tunnel. Maybe there would be some clues as to where the others had gone.

Deep in the tunnel she ran into a nest of despair demons, and despair almost overwhelmed her. As she put up her left arm to shield her face, something new happened, some kind of explosion that came from the Anchor, and suddenly the demons were gone. She stared at her hand, her arm still aching, wondering what that was and if she could control it. If she could reach the others, maybe Solas would know.

Ren hesitated before stepping out of the tunnel and into the cold air and blowing winds. How did she know where they had gone? Up, she knew, past Haven, but Haven was gone, buried in the snow ... maybe she should just wait.

But she had never been a person who waited. She stepped into the snow, making her way slowly forward.

Adding to the ringing in her ears was the whistling of the wind and the distant howling of wolves. Ren strained to hear anything else—voices or the sound of wagons or steel on steel of fighting—but there was nothing. She put her right arm above her head, trying to block out the worst of the wind so she could see at least a little way ahead of her. It was so cold; she wasn't dressed for such cold.

She found an old campsite, but it was dead, even the embers no longer holding any warmth. For a moment, she considered stopping there, trying to rebuild the fire, but then she took a breath and kept moving. The faster she could go, the sooner she could overtake them. If she could overtake them at all. Still ... if they found her, she wanted to be found on her feet, moving steadily forward, wanted them to know she hadn't given up.

She wanted him to know she hadn't given up. If the Iron Bull had been in her position, he would have kept moving. She could only do the same.

Hours later, she found another campsite, this one with the embers still warm. She tried to hold her hands above them, but the embers weren't emitting anywhere near enough heat to counteract the cold that filled her. The winds had died down, the moon rising, and she struggled on, but each step took so much effort.

Far ahead, was that a glow, as of fire? Was that a horned head silhouetted against the sky, coming toward her? Ren fell to her knees, unable to move further, and then, without being aware of it, she collapsed into the snow.


	9. The Face of the Inquisition

As soon as the rest of the Inquisition was settled in tents, the Iron Bull turned back. Krem was at his side before he had taken more than a few steps.

“You're going after the Herald, Chief?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. We're with you.” The rest of the Chargers were behind Krem, and Dorian and Cassandra and Cullen were there, too. Cole, in his floppy hat, stood off to the side. The Iron Bull was pleased so many people were willing to come back looking for her, and that no one was trying to tell him it was a fool's errand. He felt badly enough for having left her behind in the first place, having fallen for her pretense at retreating, when he had vowed to stay with her. He wasn't going to leave her out there alone, no matter whether she was alive or dead.

Technically, the Qunari weren't concerned with the bodies of their dead ... but he had been far from the Qun for a long time; he had had to learn to respect some of the southerners' customs. And in this case, he wasn't going to be able to rest if he didn't know what had happened to her. He had no intention of coming back until he found her.

The Iron Bull was far ahead of the rest of the group in short order, being taller and heavier by far than anyone else, more easily able to power through the deep snow. He was prepared to go all the way back to Haven if he had to, and he assumed he would have to. No one could have outrun that avalanche.

But as he approached the last base camp, he saw something dark in the snow, a crumpled figure ... with hair the color of bloodstone. He moved faster, pushing through the snow as though it was ocean water.

“Boss,” he said hoarsely, coming close enough to be sure that somehow, unbelievably, it really was her. “Morvoren?” He bent and lifted her, frightened by the limp way her head lolled back against his shoulder. “Hey. Hey!” he said urgently, shaking her a little, trying to rouse her. She was so cold against him. Was it possible she could have made it so close to catching up with them only to die practically within their reach?

Balancing her on one arm, he tilted her head back with his free hand and searched for her pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found it. The Iron Bull drew her close against him, trying to give her some of his body heat. “Please don't die on me, boss,” he said into her ear. “I swear, whatever happens, if you don't die, I am never leaving you behind again. Or letting you trick me into doing it.”

The others were coming now, and he turned, shouting, “She's here! Hurry!”

Cullen was first, shrugging off the fur-collared cape he wore and draping it around her, and then the mage. Dorian conjured a fireball, running it near her body. “I can warm her, but I'll need help. We need to get her back quickly.” He looked up at the Iron Bull. “Do you have her?”

“Yeah.” As if he was going to let her go. “Let's move.”

“Chief,” Krem said softly, keeping up with the Iron Bull with some difficulty as they headed back to camp. “How did she get here? That avalanche ...” He shook his head. “People are really going to think she's touched by Andraste now.”

“What do you think?”

“Me? I don't know what to think. She's either the luckiest person in all of Thedas, or ... Yeah, I don't know.”

“Would you follow her?” he asked his lieutenant. Krem's instincts about people were always good.

Krem nodded. “Anyone who could crawl out of an avalanche and manage to make it back so close to the rest of the camp ... that's someone with determination. If she lives, Chief, she'll get the job done.”

“She'll live,” the Iron Bull said firmly. He wasn't going to consider another option.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren sat up with some difficulty, listening to yet another argument across the campsite. The four advisors had been at each other for the last two days, their voices increasingly loud and strident as they tried to determine what the next course of action would be.

She had awakened yesterday afternoon wrapped in piles of blankets, with three mages working over her with carefully calibrated fireballs, and slowly her body temperature had come up. She felt almost normal now, and very tired of listening to the constant arguments. Didn't they know everyone could hear them?

“You should rest,” said Mother Giselle next to her.

“Who can with all that racket going on?”

“They have the luxury of discord because of what you accomplished.” There was a gentle smile on the Mother's face as she nodded.

Ren couldn't think of what she had done that qualified as giving anyone luxury. “Do we know if this Elder One, this Corypheus, is going to come after us again?”

Mother Giselle shook her head. “There has been no sign of him, or so I understand. Although since we are not sure where we are, it is perhaps no surprise that we are not sure where he is.”

Putting her hands to her head, Ren rubbed her temples. She needed to go join the argument, she thought, to find out where things stood from someone in charge, or at least to convince her advisors to stop airing their dirty laundry at the top of their lungs for everyone to hear.

She stood up, putting a hand on the small table next to her cot for support as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Under her fingers something soft shifted, and she picked it up, looking at it curiously.

“I do not know where that weed came from; I could dispose of it for you, if you like,” Mother Giselle said.

Ren smiled; she knew where the sprig of wilted spindleweed had come from, and who had put it there, and it made her feel better. She hadn't seen the Iron Bull, or anyone not entrusted with her care and recovery, since she had been brought back to camp, but it was nice to know he'd been thinking of her. She raised it to her nose, inhaling the faint scent of the sea that still clung to it. “No, that won't be necessary,” she said, twirling it between her fingers as she moved away from the cot toward the knot of her advisors.

They had finally ceased their argument and gone off to their respective corners to sulk. The entire camp was quiet now; too quiet. And Ren was annoyed at her advisors for ending their argument before she could get to them—if she tried to start anything back up now, she would be the one causing the discord, and she would almost rather have the silence, disturbing though it was.

She caught sight of Cole, the strange boy who had shown up just ahead of Corypheus's army, as he knelt over the dying Chancellor Roderick. Cole lifted his head and looked at her, and Ren felt a chill move through her body. Whether it was because Cole reminded her in some inexplicable way of her little brother Gawen, as pale and thin and shadowed as Gawen had been at the end, or because it felt as though Cole was looking deep inside her to secrets she didn't even want to share with herself, she wasn't sure. Ren broke the look, searching the camp for someone, anyone—no, she wasn't. She was searching for the Iron Bull, and he was nowhere to be seen.

Mother Giselle came up behind her. “Your advisors—and all of us—struggle with what we have seen. We saw our defender stand, and fall, and now we have seen her return. It is hard to accept, is it not, what we have been called to endure? What we must come to believe?” She emphasized the “we” just enough to let Ren know that her lack of belief had not gone unnoticed.

Ren frowned. It had never been her idea to let the “Herald of Andraste” title stick, and she had never claimed any belief. She had, in fact, gone out of her way to disclaim any possibility that she had been touched by a deity. And none of Mother Giselle's smug assumptions were going to lead her back to the Chantry. “I didn't die in the avalanche.”

“Of course. But the people know what they saw: You were left behind in Haven, it was buried by an avalanche, and yet somehow you were found near our camp. It is hard to imagine how such a thing is possible.”

“I walked,” Ren said.

“You say that, and I do not doubt you, but the people—sometimes they need to believe in a meaning where perhaps you may not find one. In this case, the people need to think that there is a direction coming from somewhere, because they can see none at the present time.”

Ren sighed. If the people needed direction, it should come from their leaders, not from some shadowy divinity. “Whatever the people may or may not need to think, I know the truth—I felt no divine aid at the Conclave, or at Haven. The struggle ahead seems mine alone, with no support from outside this world.”

Looking at her advisors, each locked in their own thoughts—their own stubbornness—she couldn't say she felt much support from within this world, either. She'd thought they had a plan: She would fight Corypheus and close the Breach and they would run the Inquisition. But she hadn't been able to defeat Corypheus on her own, and they didn't seem to be able to come to an agreement on how to proceed without someone knocking their heads together. With a sinking heart, it occurred to her that she would have to be that someone, and she wanted to turn and run, far away.

Behind her, she heard Mother Giselle beginning to sing, an old, old song that Ren hadn't heard in years. It was well-known, though, and around the camp Ren could see heads going up, listening. By the second verse, Leliana's voice, clear and pure, rang across the snowy hills along with Mother Giselle's deeper tones, and then more voices and still more joined in, the people converging on the center of camp, singing together, their renewed hope practically shining in the air.

And then the people, still singing, all began to kneel, going down on one knee ... in front of Ren.

She was appalled—she was no one to kneel to. But at the same time, she'd rather have them all singing, even if they were kneeling, than have everyone caught up in sorrow and weariness and misery.

Over everyone's heads, she could see the mage Solas, watching the singing with an odd expression on his face. Clearly, Solas had not been raised Andrastian, or he would have recognized the song.

As the song came to an end, everyone broke up, clapping their hands and talking with one another, a new energy pulsing through the camp. As Ren searched for a way to get out of being mobbed, she noticed that Solas was beckoning to her, and she slipped between the tents to join him, walking a bit away from the main campsite.

“Impressive,” Solas said. “You have given them hope.”

“That was Mother Giselle.”

“Her song drew them, but they stayed for you.” He nodded. “Her kind understand the moments that unify a cause. Or fracture it.”

“And you think that unified us?”

“It began to, yes. But more is needed.” Solas looked off into the distance. “I believe the orb Corypheus used is an elven artifact.” 

Ren was surprised at this, most especially because she had been the only one close enough to Corypheus to see the orb, and her sense that Solas was not all he seemed to be—or was more than he seemed to be—was heightened.

Solas went on, “I do not know how people will react when they learn of the orb's origin, especially since I believe that orb, misused, will have been what caused the explosion at the Conclave and created the Breach.”

“I can see how elves might be an easy target, if people get hold of bits and pieces of information and speculation.”

“Yes.” Solas looked at her directly, his eyes studying her with that clinical look he used that made her so uncomfortable. “By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it. Changed you. He has created unity where none existed before. It is up to you to solidify that unity.”

“Me?”

He nodded. “You have always been the symbol of the Breach, because of the mark on your hand. By standing up to Corypheus, facing off against him and living to tell the tale, you have become the face of the Inquisition.”

The moment of decision had come and gone without Ren entirely being aware of it—when she had gone to face Corypheus, when she had sent her people back without her, she had chosen. She would do it again if she had to, even if that meant becoming the leader of the Inquisition.

“Yes,” she said now, meeting Solas's eyes. “I suppose I have.”

He nodded gravely, approving. After some further conversation—suggestions that were useful, but which felt to Ren like just more responsibility on her shoulders—he left her, and Ren sank down on the ground, dropping her head on her knees, trying to control the shivering that had taken her. It wasn't from having been half-frozen in the avalanche this time. The weight of the Inquisition pressed down on her, and it frightened her.

She didn't want to be the head of the Inquisition, or its face, or anything but a pair of daggers—and an Anchor, apparently—in its service. But that choice was no longer hers. Whether she liked it or not, circumstances had colluded to make her the person people thought of when they thought of the Inquisition, and she would have to make the best of it. But for this one night, she would sit here and shiver and wish in vain that someone else had interrupted Corypheus's damned ritual.


	10. Leadership

“Hey, Chief, get up. Camp's on the move!”

The Iron Bull groaned, pushing himself up off the ground. They hadn't managed to salvage a cot big enough for him, and sleeping in blankets on the snowy dirt was not doing anything for his morale. “'Bout time,” he growled. “Where to?”

Krem was holding a cup of something hot and steaming that smelled like wet weeds. “Tea?” he asked.

“How can you people drink that crap?” The Iron Bull thought with longing of the cocoa of Seheron. “Seriously, Krem, where are we going?”

“Nobody knows.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“The Herald's already off, heading north.”

The Iron Bull frowned. “North? There's nothing there except ... mountains. And why's the Herald leading? She doesn't know this area any better than the rest of us.”

Krem raised his eyebrows. “Seems to me if someone had legs longer than the average tree and was a lot taller than the drifts, that person could catch up to the Herald, maybe blaze a trail for her through the snow, and find out where we're all going.”

“Krem.”

“Chief.”

His second-in-command grinned at him cheekily, and the Iron Bull bit back a groan. Krem always seemed to know more than was good for him. He should've been the spy. “What is there to eat?”

A few minutes later, a large hunk of dry bread in his hand, the Iron Bull was plowing through the snow, getting ahead of those of the Inquisition that were already on the move. There were enough people in the caravan that it was a fairly slow-going process to get started.

The Iron Bull passed Cullen and Leliana, deep in conversation. “Hey,” he said, slowing a bit. “Where are we headed?”

Cullen shrugged. “The Herald says to trust her, she knows what she's doing.”

“And you're following, just like that?”

“She is ... changed, since Haven,” Leliana said. “I am willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.” She shrugged, too, smiling a little. “Besides, it is better to be moving toward the middle of nowhere than stuck standing in it. Eventually, we have to come to somewhere.”

“Sure. Makes sense to me.” It didn’t, but the whole thing seemed odd. The Iron Bull picked up speed.

He could see Ren in the distance, and it surprised him a little and alarmed him a lot more how much he looked forward to catching up to her. He hadn't had a chance to talk to her since he had brought her back to camp; he'd hung around while she was being healed enough to know she was going to make a full recovery, but otherwise had kept his distance, and he had to admit to himself that he had ... missed her. Which was not good, and should have had him pausing right now, but instead he found himself moving faster.

She was floundering in the snow, her boots sinking in at every step, and she didn't have any more protection against the cold than she'd had when he found her after Haven. What had those assholes been thinking, letting her set off alone like this, without forcing a heavier coat on her, at least?

“Boss,” he called.

“What?” she snapped, turning around. Her face was red, her hair hanging around it in damp clumps.

“Let me go ahead of you. I can break the path through the snow.”

“I'm supposed to do this,” she said, but she was already tiring, he could see that.

“Supposed to do what?” The Iron Bull had caught up to her now, and he only just managed to resist the temptation to put his hand on her head, stroking the red hair that shone in the sun and the glare off the snow.

“Supposed to lead the Inquisition to its new home.” Ren struggled a few more steps before the Iron Bull yielded to temptation far enough to grasp her shoulder and hold her still so he could pull ahead. “Hey!”

“If you wear yourself out halfway there fighting with the snow, how does that look?” he asked mildly, pushing through the snow and letting her follow him. “This something the elf cooked up?”

“How did you know?”

He wasn't about to tell her that he'd been keeping his eye on her, and had seen her closeted in conversation with Solas last night after the big sing-along. He'd also seen her huddled on the ground shaking afterward, and only his sense that she needed to be alone to work through her troubles had kept him from going to her. “I get around.”

Behind him, Ren watched his back, relieved at having him there—not just to break the trail, but because he was one of the few people she could talk to more or less freely. Ben-Hassrath or not, he'd always been straight with her. And, even more, because she had missed him, missed talking to him and being around him and hearing his voice. “Yes, this is Solas's idea.” After a few steps, much easier now that he was breaking through the snow ahead of her, she said, “Bull.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“That kid, the one who showed up ahead of the Templars.”

“Cole.”

“Right.” She hesitated. “I think we should tell him to go.”

“Why?”

“He gives me the creeps.”

The Iron Bull could understand that—if he understood the kid correctly, he was some kind of a spirit in a human body. Definitely creepy. But he had a sense that Cole was important, that he had something to contribute to the Inquisition. “He warned us about the Templars, led the way up the mountain when Roderick couldn't talk. Seems to be on our side.”

“You think I should keep him around?”

“I think it can't hurt.” He shrugged. “You know, the Qunari don't believe in blowing off a viable resource.”

“No. I suppose you're right.”

“So you want to tell me why you're leading us on a wild goose chase on the say-so of a mysterious elf?”

Ren sighed. “He seemed to be making a lot of sense. Besides, where else were we going to go? We couldn't just keep sitting there arguing. At least Solas had a practical solution. Bull, what do you think of him?"

The Iron Bull snorted. “He's weird.” 

“Yes, and?”

“He's not telling us everything.”

“No kidding. How much did you see of Corypheus before—at Haven?”

The Iron Bull turned around, walking backward as he frowned down at her. “Nothing.” He looked over her head, seeing that the rest of the Inquisition trailed fairly far behind, so he stopped moving and let his frown deepen into a scowl. “And don't you ever fucking do that again.”

“What?” Ren asked, surprised at the sharp edge to his voice.

“You know what you did. It wasn't your decision whether we stood and fought with you or ran like scared little chickens—it was ours. Mine.” Her blue eyes were wide, guilty, as he held her gaze. “You tricked me into thinking you were behind me. You know damned well I would never have left you there alone otherwise.”

“I know.” She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling, not wanting him to see how much having him angry with her distressed her. But he had died for her once at Redcliffe—she couldn’t have endured having him die again at Haven. There wouldn't have been any way to go back in time and fix things this time. “Enough people had died for me already, Bull. All those soldiers, and the workers …” Ren shuddered. “I wasn't going to have your death on my hands, too.”

“Not your call. Never going to be your call, are we clear? I'm with you until we take down this Corypheus asshole, and if that means I go down fighting at your side, or in front of you, that's my decision. And a whole lot better than knowing I ran off and left you there alone. You think I could have lived with that, if you had died?” He looked down into her eyes, fighting off the urge to pull her against him and kiss her until ... Oh, fuck, what was he thinking? It was one thing to promise himself into her service because she had earned it, because the Inquisition needed her and therefore she needed him, because he thought it—and she—were a cause worth fighting for. It was quite another thing to feel this ... attraction, this draw toward her.

Ren had seen that look before, but never from him; she felt a heat build inside her and a desire to pull his head down so she could kiss him, to feel his body against hers. It was the best feeling she’d had since Corypheus’s army had first appeared outside Haven—she felt like Ren again, instead of this Herald person she had never asked to become. But the Iron Bull blinked, erasing the hunger that had been in his eye, and stepped back, breaking the moment.

She took a deep breath to bring herself back to the conversation. “What am I supposed to do, Bull, just say 'okay' to the idea that you're willing to die fighting with me—for me? Because I'm not okay with it.”

“You have to be. You're leading the Inquisition now—you have to accept the idea that people are going to die for it, and by extension, for you.”

Ren looked away. Foolish to protest that she didn't want lead the Inquisition—that ship had sailed. “We need to keep moving.”

“Not until you promise never to do that again. I mean it, Morvoren.”

Her name, her real name, sounded so natural coming from him. Ren nodded, albeit reluctantly. Because he was right, at the heart of it all, and she was being a romantic fool to think she could lead the Inquisition without ever losing anyone. “I promise.”

“Good.” He nodded sharply, then turned around and kept moving through the snow. “What were you saying about Solas?”

“He— Corypheus had this orb. It's something to do with the mark on my hand.” Ren shuddered, remembering how it had hurt when Corypheus tried to remove the Anchor, like it was going to pull her arm off. “Solas knew about it. How could he have known? He wasn't there. You were the last person to leave camp; if you didn't see the orb, how did he?”

The Iron Bull frowned. “Solas say anything more about it?”

“Only that it was an elven artifact, and we couldn't let that get around because then people would blame the elves.” Ren imagined Solas would be appalled if he knew she was discussing this so freely with an admitted Qunari spy.

“And now we're following some path Solas laid out for us?”

“He says there's a fortress up ahead, an empty one left behind long ago, big enough for the entire Inquisition and a lot more yet to come.”

The Iron Bull looked back over his shoulder at her, raising his eyebrow. “You trust him?”

Ren looked up at him with a sudden grin. He hadn't seen that smile in entirely too long, and he couldn't help an answering grin at her words. “It's what I do, isn't it? Trust people who most would think were out to screw me over. A cagey dwarf who writes stories and never tells the whole truth, a mysterious elf with no past and no explanation for his presence, a Seeker who still thinks I might have had something to do with the explosion at the Conclave, an Orlesian mage who is probably spying for the Empress ... a Qunari who admits to spying on me for his people.” She let the smile fade as her question tumbled unbidden forth from her mouth. “Tell me, Iron Bull, did the Ben-Hassrath order you to go back to Haven and find me after the avalanche?”

He looked away, facing forward again as he kept moving through the snow. “I'm sure they would have, if they'd known about it.”

The next question was more deliberate. “Did they tell you to leave the spindleweed by my bed?” She watched his back closely, but there was no change in his body language.

“Oh, you found that?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual. “It's pretty wilted, but I thought it'd be a nice reminder of home for you.”

“Thank you,” Ren said softly. “It was.” She sighed. “I suppose all my things were lost, again. First the Conclave, then the avalanche.”

The Iron Bull cleared his throat. “Actually, I think most of what was in your hut is packed on one of the brontos.”

“How did that happen?”

“Well, it took a while to get everyone out of the Chantry, so Krem rounded up some of the sneakier folks and sent them out to collect supplies and whatever they could lay their hands on.”

“And they thought to get my things?” Ren asked. She was touched by the gesture, but surprised, too. “But ... I stayed behind. Didn't everyone expect I was going to—to die?”

The Iron Bull looked at her over his shoulder again. “I guess Krem believed in you.”

“Just Krem?” The question was out before she thought about it, her voice softer than it should have been.

The Iron Bull looked abruptly away. “Looks like the Big Three do, too.”

Ren smiled at the answer. She should have known better. “You think they know they're following someone who doesn't know where she's going?”

“No. Which is pretty much what leadership is all about—getting out in front and convincing people you know what you're doing.”

He was making his way through the snow with determination. Ren couldn't help looking at his back and wondering what he would do if she reached out and ran her fingers down his spine, or over one of the many scars along the length of his back.

She'd let him make this about work and the Inquisition for now, but she had made her decision, somewhere here in the snow. She would lead their Inquisition, take them to this mysterious fortress, fight their battles, and kill this darkspawn thing and his dragon, but she wanted something for herself, too, and at last she knew what it was. At some point before all this was over, she wanted this big, sexy, intelligent man, who pretended to be so much less than he was, in her bed ... and she didn't think he would require all that much convincing. Despite his admittedly impressive self-control and the rules he was so determined to stick to, it was evident that whatever was between them, he felt it, too.

Hours later, they paused at the summit of a mountain. Solas had come up to join them, and Cullen and Leliana were only a little way behind. Across the space in front of them, Ren saw a building, a fortress, tall and lordly and welcoming. Solas turned to her, a satisfied smile on his face. “Ren Trevelyan, let me introduce you to Skyhold.”


	11. In Skyhold

The first two weeks in Skyhold were all about work. The fortress was structurally sound in most places, but filled with the debris of centuries, and making it livable was the first task for most people. Cullen, naturally, had thrown himself immediately into the details of fortification, and he and the soldiers worked harder than anyone else.

The only time they had all taken off from the work was the brief ceremony marking Ren's agreement to become the Inquisitor, officially. It had surprised and moved her that all of her advisors together had agreed she was the best choice, and that it had been for more than the mark on her hand. Growing up all but forgotten between the heir and the spare, Ren had never considered herself particularly special, and her years as a merc hadn't improved on that impression of herself. She wondered what everyone else saw in her that she didn't ... but she had agreed to the position because she didn't feel she had any other choice. These were her people, many of them here because of her—or the mark on her hand. She felt responsible for them.

Refugees and pilgrims and volunteers were pouring in. The volume was such that Josephine had drafted half a dozen people to act as her secretaries, to help keep track of the newcomers and organize Skyhold's main areas into something more befitting the dignity of the Inquisition. Ren had picked Flissa, who had run the tavern in Haven, as her own personal assistant, and the two of them had spent a fair amount of time sorting through the belongings that had been salvaged from Haven and determining what was needed to fill out Ren's wardrobe to make it suit her new position, as well as going over the space that was to become Ren's quarters.

Leaving her temporary quarters one afternoon, Ren found Cole wandering the muddy courtyard. He looked at her from under his hat, his head tilted to one side. “Bright and brave, in colors like the outside, when he is so pale and his world so dull.”

“What?”

“He reaches out a hand to follow.” He frowned. “It wasn't your fault.”

Ren blinked at him. Gawen. He was talking about her little brother Gawen, who had always complained that a life spent inside was so dull, and wished he could follow her outdoors. But Gawen had been sickly, coddled by the nurses and the tutors and their father. “Stay out of my head,” she said in an unsteady voice. She didn't need this spirit bringing those memories up again.

“You have pain.”

“Yes. So do most people.”

Cole nodded. “I can help.” He turned, looking up at Cullen's office. “Such darkness—it wraps around him as he tries not to remember the light. He prefers the dark, but it hurts him, as well.”

“You know,” Ren said, watching him, “people don't really want you telling other people what their pain is.”

“But how can you help if you don't know?”

She sighed. “I suppose you can't. Maybe not everyone wants to be helped.”

Cole's shoulders slumped. “But if I can't help, then ... what do I do?”

“Rusty.” It was Varric, appearing suddenly at her elbow. “Let me talk to the kid; maybe I can explain it. And I'll see you on the battlements in fifteen minutes.”

“Sure.” Let Varric deal with Cole; he gave Ren the creeps. If it weren't for the Iron Bull's recommendation, she might have suggested that Cole find some place to go help that wasn't Skyhold.

On her way across the courtyard, she ran into Blackwall, the Grey Warden. Blackwall had been making himself useful wherever he could find a space, but she hadn't missed the fact that he always seemed to be near where she was. They chatted idly for a few moments before he suggested that they take a walk along the ramparts, to look over the fortifications.

She raised her eyebrows. It seemed like a bit of encroachment into Cullen's bailiwick, and Cullen was in no mood to be trifled with at the moment, but Ren supposed it couldn't hurt to take a look herself. She couldn't help but wonder what the darkness was in Cullen that Cole had referenced, and reminded herself sharply to mind her own business.

The ramparts were in good condition, and Cullen already had guard rotations set up, so they were being patrolled on a regular basis.

They passed a knot of soldiers. When they were out of earshot, Blackwall looked at her, saying quietly, “That was a brave thing you did, standing against Corypheus alone.”

“Brave, or stupid. Can't decide which.” She smiled.

“I think a lot of bravery can be categorized that way.”

“I suppose.” Ren hitched a hip on the edge of the battlement, looking down over the courtyard.

“Seems like fighting an ancient darkspawn is the right thing for a Grey Warden to do.” Blackwall was standing very close to her suddenly. “I just ... wanted you to know that I'm with you as long as it takes. I pledge myself to the Inquisition. And to you.”

“That's kind of you, Blackwall.”

“When I joined the Inquisition, it was in the absence of my fellow Grey Wardens, and to lend a hand to close the Breach. But over time, I've seen the change in you, seen you grow into the position of Inquisitor. I ... suppose what I mean to say is that I've come to believe in you.” His voice dipped huskily.

Ren glanced at him. He was a good-looking man, Blackwall. He had striking blue eyes and a pleasing face and an intelligence that would make him an entertaining companion. There was little question that most people would find Blackwall more attractive than the Iron Bull, given the Qunari's pale skin and the scars that covered his body and, of course, the horns. So why had the Iron Bull's declaration of fidelity, his pledge to stay with her until Corypheus was dead, meant so much, comforted her so well, and Blackwall's was nice but left her unmoved?

Not to mention that Blackwall's overture came with strings attached that she could practically see hanging in the air. He meant it ... but if she explored what else he meant he would want more than a tumble. And she couldn't take advantage of that, not when she didn't feel the same way, not when she had nothing to offer him or any man in the long term. She was Inquisitor today, but when Corypheus was dead? She would go back to being the forgotten fourth daughter of a minor Marcher noble, unimportant and useful to no one. No, she thought, she couldn't have accepted Blackwall's attention in good conscience, even if she wanted to.

She got up off the wall, putting some space between them, and she could see in his face that he understood the meaning behind the movement. “Thank you, Blackwall. I appreciate the support.”

He smiled. “I'm glad they saw reason and made you the Inquisitor, officially. I just wanted to let you know that I am here for you, whatever you need from me.”

Ren nodded, returning the smile. They stood there rather awkwardly for a moment. She glanced over the side wall to the courtyard below, seeing Varric walking across the muddy tent-filled expanse with the Iron Bull. Hastily biting off her lips the smile that rose to them at the sight of the Qunari, she caught Varric's eye. He gestured to another part of the battlements; it must be time to meet his friend. She wondered briefly where Cole had gone and who he was trying to help now.

“Blackwall, will you excuse me?” she asked, and he gave her a small, courtly bow, completely out of keeping with the grizzled Grey Warden she had come to know, before heading back down the stairs to pitch in at the infirmary area far below them.

In the courtyard, Varric was saying good-bye to the Iron Bull, who looked up in time to catch Ren watching him. She deliberately didn't look away, holding his gaze, feeling it across the space between them as though it was a tangible thing. His dark, clever face twisted sardonically, and she couldn't help but smile. He could see right through her, had been able to from the first moment, but she had never minded, because he always seemed to like what he saw. Maybe that was what made the difference, she thought. Maybe that was why she looked forward to seeing him with such anticipation, why she found smiles coming to her more readily in his presence—because he not only saw her for who she was, he genuinely liked her. In her experience, that was a rarity.

Turning away, Ren couldn't help but frown, remembering the spycraft that was such a part of him. If he was playing her, he was doing it skillfully; so skillfully that she really didn't care whether she was being played or not.

Varric met her at the top of the stairs. “You ready, Rusty?”

“Ready for what, exactly, Varric?”

“To meet the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“No! You really brought him here? You know Cassandra's going to kill you, right?”

“Yeah, the Seeker's not going to be thrilled when she finds out.” Varric shrugged. “Under other circumstances, I would care. But this Corypheus ... we fought him before, Hawke and I, and he was dead. I mean, pools of blood on the floor dead. If he's back now ... Shit. That's just scary—scarier than the Seeker on her best day.”

Ren looked down at the dwarf, reflecting on the changes that face-off with Corypheus had made in so many of them. In some ways, the attack on Haven had been the best thing that could have happened to the Inquisition, and her own foolish decision to stay behind the most constructive choice she could have made. She couldn't help wondering what Corypheus would say if he knew he had been the most instrumental force in consolidating the Inquisition against him.

Waiting in front of her on the battlements was a big man in heavy armor. He had a hawk's nose, appropriately enough, and a shock of unruly brown hair, and a warm and open smile. “The Inquisitor, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Lucas Hawke. I imagine you've heard a lot more about me than I'd want you to.” He grinned down at Varric, who laughed. The dwarf seemed to be glowing suddenly, and it was clear these two men were very important to one another.

“All good, I promise,” Ren said, smiling. “Actually, Varric keeps pretty silent on the subject of you. I didn't even know it was you I was meeting until a couple of minutes ago.”

“Seeker doesn't know you're here,” Varric said briefly.

“She'll have to soon enough.” Lucas Hawke turned his handsome face back in Ren's direction. “Varric's message told me Corypheus is still alive. I have to admit, I find it hard to believe.”

“It was no figment of my imagination that nearly jerked my arm out of its socket.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply ... all I meant was that he was dead. Really dead.” Hawke sighed. Leaning on the battlement, he told Ren about finding Corypheus in an ancient Grey Warden prison and defeating him in a hard-fought battle. And then, with Varric interjecting his own comments, Hawke told her about the red lyrium idol they had found in a thaig and the effect it had had on Varric's brother and on Kirkwall's Knight-Commander, and about his own research with a Grey Warden named Stroud on the red lyrium and its effects. “Stroud is going to meet us in Crestwood; when we heard that the rest of his fellow Wardens had disappeared, he insisted on scouting for any hints to their whereabouts on his own. I should get to Crestwood as soon as I can, though.”

“No Rivaini this trip?” Varric asked.

“The Admiral of the Eastern Seas?” Hawke's face softened. “No. She had some pithy things to say about darkspawn and red lyrium and people who had more nobility than was good for them. My better half,” he said to Ren by way of explanation. “She's a pirate.”

“I see. So you'd like to get this wrapped up and get back to her, then?”

“Well, I confess I like having dry land under my boots for a change, but yes.” His brown eyes studied Ren for a long moment. “You have anyone who makes it easier for you to get through the day, Inquisitor?”

“Call me Ren,” she said, avoiding the question. It should have seemed intrusive coming from someone she'd just met, but Hawke had been in her shoes in Kirkwall; she got the sense that his concern for her came through his own hard-fought experience.

“Varric?” he asked.

“Not saying a word. Although I might have some speculations.”

“Keep them to yourself,” she advised him.

Lucas Hawke nodded thoughtfully. “It took me a long time, but I realized eventually I was stronger with her than I was without her. It took her even longer, but what I got was ... priceless.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“You do that. And I'll see you in Crestwood.”

Ren shook his hand. “I'll leave you two to catch up; Lucas, pleasure to meet you.”

She left the battlements, thinking about what he had said. It was a lonely way to live, this rejecting the offers that came to her because she didn't want to take advantage of her position or of the undeniable hero-worship factor that was behind so many of them. All the more reason to step up her pursuit of the Iron Bull—he was the one person in Skyhold who she thought could handle a fun tumble ... or a few of them ... without needing to make more of it than it was.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull stood outside his tent watching the hustle and bustle around him. Even he had been surprised by how quickly Skyhold had filled up with people of all types. He tried to get around among as many of the new arrivals as he could, and he sent Krem and some of the other Chargers around to gather information for him as well, passing on whatever they discovered to Leliana and Josephine and Cullen.

He hadn't seen much of Ren in the last week or so—she'd been busy getting up to speed as Inquisitor, and in truth, he'd been avoiding her, little as he wanted to admit it. Something had changed since they had arrived in Skyhold; there was a flirtatiousness in her that he had to admit he liked, but there was intent behind it, too, and that meant eventually he was going to have to decide what to do about her. He knew what he wanted to do, but it wasn't a good idea for many reasons ... not least of which was how much he wanted to.

But not seeing her took a lot of the fun out of the Inquisition, and it wasn't helped by how long it had been since there had been anything to fight.

Tonight he was seeking her out, though, because he had an idea for how to help her have a better handle on being the Inquisitor, and that, after all, was what he was here for—to build up the Inquisition, and thus its leader, into something that could take down that darkspawn asshole and remove the threat he posed to the world.

In what would eventually be the main hall, he found her deep in conversation with Josephine about dining tables. “Iron Bull,” Ren said with a distracted frown, “don't you think long family-style tables would be best? That way everyone could sit together, foster ... unity amongst our people.”

“Yeah, boss. Sounds like the right idea to me.”

“The nobility are not going to like that,” Josephine said.

“Why not have a separate dining room for the nobility?” Ren asked. “You can hold parties there in the style you think is appropriate, and those nobles who don't want to rub elbows with the rest of the Inquisition won't have to.”

Josephine nodded. “I think we could do that. Thank you, Inquisitor.” She moved off, scribbling something on her ever-present clipboard, and Ren looked up the Iron Bull with a smile.

“Thank you. I needed a second opinion.”

“Glad to help. Actually, I was hoping you had some free time.”

“For you? Always.” Her smile widened, and the Iron Bull pretended he didn't feel the warmth of it all the way down to his ... toes.

He cleared his throat. “There's something I want to show you.”

“Show and tell time, is it?” Her eyebrows lifted.

“Not exactly.” He resolutely refused to rise to her flirting; he wasn't about to give her the wrong impression. “Come with me.” Of course, it occurred to him as they walked that there were parts to this idea that he could have thought through more thoroughly, especially as he stopped outside his tent and saw the look in her eyes, a bright hope that she couldn't quite hide. He cleared his throat. “Go in there and change into the armor on the cot.”

“Armor?” He could see Ren valiantly bite back her disappointment. “Why am I changing into armor?”

“Reasons. Look, just ... It'll be worth your time. I promise.”

“All right.” She disappeared inside, and the Iron Bull endured a slow torture listening to the small sounds of her getting undressed; imagining every piece of warm, naked skin being bared right there next to his cot; wondering if she was thinking the same things he was. Then she came out in the merc armor he had borrowed from one of his men, and the flush on her cheeks said everything he wouldn't have asked about what she'd been thinking. “You going to tell me what this is all about now?”

“Come on.”

They walked together through the makeshift camp set up in the muddy courtyards. Ren started to talk, but the Iron Bull shushed her. “Just listen,” he said. “This is your Inquisition; listen to what they're saying.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes, and she nodded, looking around her at the people they passed, listening to conversations that would have been hushed immediately if she had been recognized as the Inquisitor. Eventually, the Iron Bull spied a pair of soldiers sitting down playing a card game, and he led her over to them, pulling up a log to sit on and introducing both of them as members of the Chargers.

One of the soldiers was from Jader, the other had been a noblewoman's guard captain.

“So,” the Iron Bull said to them, “you ready to kill some demons, or Venatori, or whatever that Corypheus asshole is?”

“This isn't just about killing,” the older soldier, Mira, said. “We're helping the Inquisitor save the world and build the next empire.”

Next to him, Ren almost managed to keep her face impassive, but he could see that wasn't the answer she had expected, and that she hadn't been prepared for the extremity of what her people thought her capable of.

“Long as I get paid, I'm happy. That's why I joined.” The Iron Bull gave his best mercenary grin.

Tanner, the younger soldier, said, “I just couldn't spend my whole life on a farm.” He looked around. “Although given all the mud, so far this isn't much different.”

“What about you, Mira?” the Iron Bull asked. “Why'd you sign up?”

Mira looked down at her cards, saying softly, “I saw what happened at Haven, the Inquisitor staring down that monster and his archdemon. I don't sing the Chant of Light as often as I should ... but you can't see something like that and not believe.”

Ren's sigh in response to that was almost inaudible. This wasn't the kind of thing she wanted to hear, he knew that, but she had to know what the people were saying.

They chatted with the soldiers for a few more minutes before excusing themselves, and then he and Ren got up, moving through the crowds some more.

“Well, that was eye-opening,” she said.

“I thought it might be.” He looked down at her. “I know every soldier under my command, but you don't have that option, and it's just going to get worse as the Inquisition grows. I thought a few faces, a few individual voices, might help.”

“It did. Thank you, Bull.”

“Yeah. Any time, boss. We should do this again a few more times before people get to know your face. That tattoo's going to be pretty well-known after a while.”

She smiled. “A youthful rebellion—my father was appalled.” As they looked at one another, her smile changed a bit. “So ... shall we go back to your tent?” He stayed silent, not wanting to say yes, but really not wanting to say no, either, and Ren winked at him. “To get my clothes, of course, and change back out of these.”

“Right.”

He stood guard outside the tent while she changed, trying to think about the tryst he'd arranged with one of the tavern girls for later that evening, trying not to think about Ren half-naked in his tent, and failing utterly.

She came out eventually, pausing to look up at him. “I left the armor where I found it.” There was something saucy about the look on her face and he would have paid a lot of coin right now for the right to pick her up and kiss her, to put his hands on her spectacular ass and ... And that was enough of that, he told himself sternly. You'd think he was some kid going off to his first tamassran. The worst of it was that Ren seemed to know what he'd been thinking, because she winked at him again. “Good-night, Iron Bull.”

“'Night, boss.”

When she was gone, he went into the tent. Something was lying on top of the merc armor, and he picked it up, absolutely flummoxed to find himself holding her underwear. Pale blue like her eyes, soft, with a little bit of lace. He could not possibly have stopped himself from lifting the tiny piece of cloth to his nose and inhaling the scent of her. 

Damn, she smelled good. He nearly groaned aloud, need spiking through him like lightning. The tavern girl was waiting for him, he knew, but ... she wouldn't smell like this. He didn't get hard imagining her naked; he didn't find himself smiling just thinking about her.

The Iron Bull dropped the smallclothes on the cot, stepping back from them as though they were some kind of poisonous snake. It was one thing to want to take the Inquisitor to bed—he was in a fairly large company of people who wanted that. But this was something else altogether: He wanted her. Her, and no one else. And not just to screw her. He wanted to make her laugh, to watch her sleep, to ease the tension he saw building in her as she tried to be everything all of the Inquisition wanted her to be. But that wasn't the Qunari way; just how far had this Inquisition dragged him from his people, anyway?

Bleakly he stared at the tiny piece of blue fabric on his bed. She had him well and truly fucked up. He wondered if she knew.


	12. The Chargers' Camp

Ren left Cullen's office with promises to check in on him again later. Poor sod; she wasn't familiar with the details of lyrium withdrawal, but she couldn't imagine it felt good, and here he was pushing himself harder than any three people in Skyhold on a regular basis. She'd have to have a chat with Cassandra, see what they could do to get Cullen some assistants to take on some of his work-load, make sure that they were keeping an eye on his progress. Not only was his work with the soldiers of the Inquisition absolutely essential, he was a genuinely good man, who cared about the people who worked for him. Courageous as his battle was, he didn't need to fight it alone, not when he had friends who could support him.

Moving along the battlements, she found herself in the wrecked room at the top of the tavern, wondering if the Iron Bull was around. He and Krem had taken up residence in the tavern—or so she'd heard. The Iron Bull had been avoiding her ever since they came to Skyhold, but it had been much worse since she'd left her underwear in his tent. Even when they'd been on expedition in the Forbidden Oasis, just the two of them and Cole and Dorian, he wouldn't talk to her. If she'd known the effect they were going to have on him, she'd have kept her panties on, she thought. Now not only had she not made any progress on getting him to admit he was attracted to her, she seemed to have lost her best friend in the process.

Downstairs she found Krem buying a case of wine from Cabot, the new bartender. Krem smiled when he saw her. “Inquisitor! You're just in time. Come have some drinks with the boys.”

Ren smiled back. “Sounds like a plan. Can I help carry?”

“You think I need help?” Krem bristled just a little, and Ren hastened to shake her head.

“No ... just habit, I guess.”

“You're the Inquisitor, Your Worship. You're going to have to get over that habit.”

“I suppose so. Hard to do, though.” Ren held the tavern door open for him. “Oh, hey, I talked to Cullen and he agreed that it's a good idea for the Chargers to go check out Haven, see what can be salvaged. Anything you need in the way of supplies or extra men, talk to Ser Morris the quartermaster, tell him to see Cullen or me if he has any questions.”

“Will do. Glad we can help.”

“Also, I wondered if you could do me a favor while you're at it.”

“Can't imagine why not.” Krem smiled at her.

“My assistant Flissa—“

“Cute little redhead, used to tend the bar in Haven?”

“That's the one.” Ren didn't miss the adjective, and she wondered. Flissa was a lovely girl, inside and out, and Krem a good guy. She might have been tempted herself ... under other circumstances. “She's got some errands to run for me in Redcliffe. I wondered if she could ride with the Chargers as far as Haven, maybe someone could see her the rest of the way?”

“I think we can arrange something.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.” Ren could hear the Chargers singing already, and she grinned. “You all do liven up the place.”

“That's the idea.”

They gave Krem a rousing cheer as he approached with the case of wine. Most of them were already deep into a barrel of ale, but Ren had only ever seen Krem with wine, and she wondered if the whole case was for him.

The Iron Bull looked up as they came near, his eye sliding over Ren unresponsively. It hurt, she couldn't lie, but she tried to keep that reaction from being too noticeable. Fortunately for her, the Iron Bull was having enough difficulty ignoring her that his usual powers of perception were significantly impaired. “How ya doin', Krem de la Creme?” he said instead. Needling Krem was always a good outlet for his feelings.

Unfortunately, his second-in-command knew him well enough to be aware of the tensions. The Iron Bull would have bet a fair amount of coin that Krem had invited the Inquisitor to the party tonight for just that reason, too.

“So glad he has someone new to hit with that joke,” Krem said to Ren. “Maybe if he gets the whole Inquisition with it, I won't have to hear it again.”

Ren looked at the Iron Bull straight on; let him ignore her if he wanted to. “Is that his best attempt?”

“I'm afraid so. The Chief loves his nicknames; he's just not very good at them.” Krem grinned.

The Iron Bull shrugged. “When I was growing up, my name was just this series of numbers. We all give each other nicknames under the Qun. Doesn't mean they're too original.”

“They ever wear shirts under the Qun, Chief? Or do they just run around binding their breasts like that?” Krem took a bottle out of the case and opened it, offering it to Ren, then snagged another one for himself. He settled down on an upended log near the Iron Bull, gesturing for Ren to take the slightly more comfortable-looking stool.

“It's a harness,” the Iron Bull growled.

“Yes, for your pillowy man-bosoms.” The two of them looked at each other, the battle for who would look away first obvious. “Let me know if you need help binding. You could really chisel something out of that overstuffed look.” Krem looked at Ren. “Don't you think so, Inquisitor?”

She nearly choked on her swallow of wine, and hoped the coughing covered the sudden redness she could feel rising in her cheeks. “Don't look at me. Fashion advice isn't my strong suit. You should ask Josephine, maybe she can design something in a nice satin.” She shot the Iron Bull a wicked grin.

He avoided her eyes, trying to stick to the decision he'd made, that they were coworkers and nothing else. “What do you think, Krem? Your father was a tailor. Might have been one yourself if things were different.”

“Things would have had to be a lot different.” Krem chuckled.

The Iron Bull toasted his lieutenant. “To you, Krem de la Creme, for knowing who you are and refusing to be who you weren't.”

Krem smiled affectionately at his chief, acknowledging the compliment.

Ren looked at the second-in-command with curiosity. She rarely thought about his gender; had, in fact, just assumed he was male through and through for a long time, but now that she knew he wasn't, at least not physically, she had to admit to some curiosity. “Did you always know?” she asked him quietly.

“Yes. It's not the most fortunate thing to know about yourself, growing up in Tevinter one rung above slavery,” Krem said.

The bravado in his voice was well-hidden, but it was there, and Ren nodded. “I'd imagine it's still better than not knowing.”

Krem nodded back. “Probably.”

“In Qunandar, Krem would be aqun-athlok,” the Iron Bull said. “That's what we call someone born one gender and living like another.”

“You have a word for that?” Ren asked. “You're doing better than we are, then.”

“And Qunari don't treat those ... aqun people differently from real men?” Krem asked.

“They are real men. Just like you are.”

Just when she thought she couldn't like him any better. Ren took another cooling, fortifying swallow of her wine. She was going to have to start cataloging things she didn't like about him, if he was going to keep ignoring her.

“Hm. Maybe your people aren't so bad after all,” Krem said softly.

The Iron Bull chuckled. “Don't get your hopes up, Krem. We still come down pretty hard on the back talk.”

The two men looked at each other with respect and undeniable affection, and Ren glanced away to avoid appearing to stare at the moment. “This can't be all the Chargers,” she said.

“Nah, the rest of 'em went looking for stronger drinks,” the Iron Bull said. “These are some of the best, though. Let's see, there's Rocky, and Skinner over there.” Ren had met the mustached dwarf before, but she'd never seen the sour-faced elf who sat with him. “And over there is Stitches, Dalish, and Grim.” The dark-skinned healer, Stitches, was a familiar and well-loved figure in the Inquisition—he'd helped out a lot in the infirmary. The slender tattooed elf Ren had seen around a few times, and the big blond Grim as well, but never to speak to. The Iron Bull chuckled, looking around at them. “Crazy bunch of assholes, but they're mine.” He was proud of his motley crew of misfits and how well they fought together.

“What are your criteria for adding new members to the Chargers?” Ren asked him.

“Anyone who can hold up their weight in a fight, anyone who's got everyone else's back ...”

“Anyone who can put up with the Chief's bullshit,” Krem added. “What about it, Inquisitor, want to be an honorary Charger?”

She kept her eyes off the Iron Bull. “I wouldn't say no.”

“Then welcome aboard. Say, Chief, Inquisitor says Cullen approved the trip to Haven. Looks like we'll be heading down the mountain tomorrow. Where are the two of you off to?” Krem asked, looking between them.

They both jumped at that, each coming to the conclusion that the phrasing had been deliberate. But neither of them looked at each other.

“Western Approach,” the Iron Bull said.

Ren hastily added, “With Dorian and Cassandra. I'm sure everyone will be arguing with each other long before we reach the Orlesian border.” She stood up. “Speaking of ... with an early morning tomorrow, I should get some sleep. Thanks for having me.” She saluted them with her half-empty wine bottle.

“Chief, if you're heading back to the tavern, you might as well walk the Inquisitor back to her quarters.”

The Iron Bull was halfway out of his seat with an automatic eagerness before he realized what a bad idea that would be. Quickly he pretended to be stretching. “I'm pretty comfortable here. Why don't you walk her back, Krem?” It was an order, and they all knew it.

“Got it.”

“I'm fine, really,” Ren protested, but Krem ambled along next to her anyway.

“Never seen him like this before,” Krem said. “You piss him off?”

“Not that I know of.” She wasn’t about to tell Krem about her underwear.

“Didn't think so.” He glanced at her. “He's funny, the Chief. He'll go months drinking and whoring with the best of 'em, and then he gets these fits where he thinks he's forgetting how to be a real Qunari and he sits around and broods for a while. It always passes.”

“Must be hard to be so far from everything he grew up with.” Ren hadn't thought of it that way before, but that might explain at least some of the change in him. It didn't cover why most of that change had been directed at her, but she was fairly sure the smallclothes were responsible for that. She had clearly pushed too hard.

“Mm-hm. Southern life's got a lot of temptations for someone raised in the Qun, lot of different ideas that he has to pay lip service to in order to keep his cover. I think he questions sometimes whether he's paying lip service or coming to believe what he's saying. He overthinks everything, anyway. Never quite gets drunk enough to shut down his brain.”

“Some people would say that's a good thing.” Ren chuckled. “I've shut my brain down a few times; always regretted it later.”

“Same here. Not the Chief, though. At any rate, give him some time, he'll get over whatever this is. If not, I'll keep poking at him until I get it out of him.”

“Thanks, Krem.”

“Anytime, Your Worship.”

“For the Maker's sake, my name is Ren.”

He grinned at her. “I know.”

“Good-night, then, Krem de la Creme.” She returned the grin as he groaned.

“I'll have to get the chief for spreading that one around.” Krem saluted her with his wine bottle before heading back to the Chargers' camp.


	13. The Ben-Hassrath Letter

Ren woke up in the enormous, decadently comfortable bed in her new quarters, stretching luxuriously. She'd made do with camps and cots and drafty tents for years, ever since she'd run away from her arranged marriage and joined Dooley's Raiders. This was the first time she'd ever had the chance to choose her own furnishings, and she was delighted with the way her quarters had turned out. The marble bath with heating runes and a cistern above for running water, the shelves stuffed full of her favorite books, and, most important, the huge bed she had specifically requested.

For now, she was enjoying having so much room to stretch out and roll over in, but someday she hoped to have someone to share it with ... preferably the largest man she had ever met, but she was trying to avoid thinking about him right at the moment. He still wasn't talking to her, and it had been a long, long trip to the Western Approach and back with this businesslike work-only approach between them.

“Ah, there you are, my lady.” Flissa smiled at her as she came up the stairs with a handful of papers.

“Dispatches?”

“Some of them. Also invitations, letters, sales flyers.”

“Sales?”

“Your dressmakers.”

“Oh.” Ren didn't have much use for dresses in Skyhold; she'd had a couple made at Josephine's insistence, for those formal occasions the ambassador anticipated, but she wasn't really interested in buying more. “I don't think I ever asked—how was your trip to Redcliffe?”

Flissa smiled, her cheeks flushing pink. “Lovely. I mean ... perfectly nice.”

“Ah. The Chargers saw you safely to your destination?”

“And back again.”

“Hm. You going again?”

Flissa frowned. “Inquisitor?”

“Nothing.” Ren smiled broadly. Krem had been similarly cagey about the trip when she'd asked him. “Anything pressing on the calendar today?”

“Doesn't look like it.”

“Good. I think I'll take a walk and see what kind of trouble I can get into.”

“You do that.” Flissa shook her head. “You know, most people in your position would feel they'd had enough trouble.”

“Yeah, but trouble I go looking for is fun. Trouble that comes looking for me is ... less so.”

As Flissa chuckled, Ren got out of bed and got dressed, heading down into the main keep to see what was going on around Skyhold. In the weeks since the Inquisition had really begun to get settled there, everyone in Skyhold had begun to relax and get comfortable, not only in the keep but with each other.

When she was in residence, Ren regularly met with Josephine for tea and gossip, and with Cullen in his office for a drink after dinner. Occasionally Leliana joined them, if Ren stayed particularly late. She enjoyed having the chance to get to know her advisors as people, finding them far less forbidding outside the War Room and thus easier to get along with inside it.  
She also played chess with Dorian and Wicked Grace with Varric, and sparred with Cole or Cassandra, in addition to her morning chats with Flissa and spending time in the Undercroft with Harritt and Dagna talking about armor and dagger designs. Between them all, they managed to fill nicely most of the hours when she wasn't answering correspondence and making plans in the War Room with her advisors and meeting with visiting nobles.

But somehow none of it quite made up for the empty space left by not being able to talk to the Iron Bull. She had grown so used in Haven to sitting with him and talking things over with him and to the sense of relaxation that came from being around someone who really understood her.

Ren hadn't decided how to handle the situation yet, either. Some days she tried to let it all go and ignore his existence, leaving things on the all-business basis where he had placed them so firmly. Other days she pushed, hoping if she did so he would relent and at least talk to her about something, even if it wasn't about whatever had changed between them.

Today appeared to be one of the second kind; as she exited the keep, she saw the Iron Bull and Krem sparring together, and wandered over to watch.

Krem nodded at her, dodging a blow from the Iron Bull's practice shield.

“Ah, come on, Krem!” the Iron Bull bellowed. “I've been working my ass off trying to get you to see that move! Don't get distracted.”

“He's still got plenty of ass left, doesn't he, Your Worship?”

“Leave me out of this one,” Ren said, grinning.

The Iron Bull glanced at her quickly, something tense in his expression. At least tension was an improvement over the carefully schooled impassiveness that had been there for the past several weeks. He reset himself, shoulder low, shield held up, his eye carefully on Krem. “Glad you came by, boss. I got a letter from my contacts with the Ben-Hassrath. I've already verified it with Leliana.”

Ren looked at Krem, who was preparing to take the brunt of the Iron Bull's shield bash. She assumed he knew everything there was to know about the Iron Bull's work with the Ben-Hassrath; the two men had few secrets from each other, if any.

The Iron Bull rushed forward, shouting as his shield struck Krem's and sent the smaller man staggering.

“You know they've got training dummies for this, Chief, if you need to hit something so badly.”

“The training dummy might actually defend itself against the shield bash,” the Iron Bull snapped. Ren had never heard him speak so sharply to Krem before. Whatever was in this letter—or, possibly, her own presence—had the Iron Bull as upset as she had ever seen him. “Anyway, the Ben-Hassrath letter ...”

“What did it say?”

“They've been reading my reports. They don't like Corypheus or his Venatori, to say the least. And they really don't like red lyrium.”

“Who does?” Ren muttered.

The Iron Bull took a step toward her, looking down at her intensely. “They're ready to work with us. With you, boss. The Qunari and the Inquisition, joining forces.”

Ren's eyebrows flew up. “You've already checked this with Leliana?”

The Iron Bull nodded.

“It's an unprecedented offer ... if we could believe it was legitimate,” she said. “Which I have to admit, I'm not sure I think we can.”

“Ordinarily, that would be the way to go,” the Iron Bull agreed, with some of the old approval in his eye. “But in this case, they've identified themselves. They're not running a game on you.” He set himself again to charge at Krem, who was listening intently but without comment. “They've found a massive red lyrium shipping operation on the Storm Coast.”

“They wanted us to hit it together,” Krem added. “Talked about bringing in one of their dreadnoughts.” He grinned. “Always wanted to see one of those big warships in action.”

The Iron Bull attacked while his lieutenant was talking, and his mouth turned up in a triumphant grin as Krem was knocked sideways, the shield flying from his hand. “Did you see that? Ah, go get some water.” He waved the shield menacingly, but Krem was chuckling as he headed off, leaving Ren and the Iron Bull alone together for the first time in weeks.

Ren looked up at him as he came toward her. He was agitated and on edge; others might not be able to see it, but she could: in the way he had snapped at Krem, in the tension in the arm that held the shield, in the way his narrow jaw clenched.

“The Ben-Hassrath are worried about tipping the smugglers, so no army. My Chargers, you, maybe some backup.”

“I'm not sure I like the sound of that.”

“The Chargers'll be there. They're as good as an army any day.”

“What does this alliance really get us?” Ren asked him. “Is it worth the risk?”

He shrugged. “They wouldn't use the word 'alliance' if they didn't mean it. If this goes well, it could mean naval power. More Ben-Hassrath reports, more detailed ones. Qunari soldiers pointed at the Venatori. It could do a lot of good.”

She frowned. “I don't think I have to tell you that the rest of Thedas doesn't look on the Qunari with trust. I would have to talk to Josephine about how this would impact her web of loyalties.”

“Yeah, I figured. If it's a question of us or the Vints, though ...”

“You're right, it's a bit of a toss-up at that point.” Ren looked up at him thoughtfully. “You're not entirely happy with this; care to share why?”

“No, I'm good,” the Iron Bull protested.

“Really.”

He frowned. “It's, uh ... I'm used to them being ... over there. It's been a while.”

Krem's words came back to her. Clearly the Iron Bull was in the midst of a struggle between his Qunari roots and the southernness he had come to embrace during his years as a spy. “I thought the Qunari's goal was to extend their reach to the whole world.”

“Yeah. I just—didn't think I'd see it.” His eye met hers for the first time in a long while. “Look, the Qun answers a lot of questions. It's a good life for a lot of people. But it's a big change.” He sighed, looking away from her. “And a lot of folks here wouldn't do so well under that kind of life, like we've talked about before.”

“And you'd be happier if they stayed there and left us alone here.”

“Something like that.”

“And you're worried that agreeing to this alliance is opening the door to that larger change.”

“Yes. No.” The Iron Bull frowned, thinking about it. “It's not like we're converting. This is just us joining forces against Corypheus. On that front, I think we're good.”

“In that case, if you're sure, then maybe the Inquisition could use some help from the Qunari.”

“Good.” He nodded sharply, his face closing off again. “I'll pass on word to Cullen and Leliana and run the plan by Josephine, and we can set up the meeting whenever you're ready.”

“Sounds good.” She hesitated for a moment, then gave him an equally sharp nod and turned away from him.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull watched her walk away, his eye immediately drawn to the perfection of her ass in the tight pants she wore. It hadn't escaped him that this was the longest conversation they'd had in weeks. It felt good. Better than good. He had missed talking to her, missed the sensation that as well as he knew her, she knew him, too. Better than almost anyone other than Krem, at this point, and that was a good feeling.

And one he shouldn't have. He worked with her; he spied on her. Openly, of course, but still—his loyalties were divided, and everyone knew it. He had no business doing anything other than lifting his sword in her service; no business watching her back for any reason other than to make sure no one was about to plant a blade in it.

But that was easier said than done. Especially since he still found himself in the middle of fucking another woman and imagining it was her; still watched her with concern, trying to gauge her mood and see how he could improve it; still kept her smallclothes underneath his pillow like any lovesick southern idiot.

The Iron Bull turned around, hurling the practice shield against the wall, taking some satisfaction in the way it splintered against the stones. He was by no means certain that this 'alliance' being offered by the Ben-Hassrath was a good idea, and he thought there was a reasonable chance that he was being used to lure the Inquisitor into a trap of some kind. He trusted his contact ... but not without reservations. And if it came down to a choice, her or his people? Because he knew what would happen to her under the Qun; and what he treasured in her, her intelligence, her humor, her irreverence, her independence, her self-reliance—those would not survive reeducation.

If he was honest with himself, he didn't know what he would choose. And the fact that there was any uncertainty at all made him wonder just how far from the Qun he had wandered. If he wasn't Qunari, if he didn't believe the Qun was the right way, then ... who was he? What was he?

Fuck. He needed to hit something, right now. The Iron Bull went looking for Cullen—the look in the commander's eyes recently, maybe he needed to hit something, too.


	14. Just Like Old Times

The journey to the Storm Coast went by quickly. As far as the Iron Bull was concerned, it was both too fast and not fast enough. He was still nervous about what waited for them, but he wanted to get it over with, too.

At least he had the Chargers with him. The familiarity of traveling with his own people was a relief. Especially since Ren spent most of her time riding with Dorian, whom the Iron Bull was slowly coming to trust but was still a Vint, after all; or with Blackwall, who looked at the Inquisitor with a certain unguarded wistfulness that was ... unsettling. Not that she had ever looked twice at Blackwall, at least, not that the Iron Bull knew of, and she would never take advantage of a tenderness she didn't feel in return ... but still. In the Iron Bull's mind, she belonged with him, and the reminder that all of that was only in his head—and had to stay there—was an unnecessary torment on this particular trip.

Once they'd arrived and made camp, he led them to the appointed rendezvous spot. He had been in correspondence with his handler on the road to set up the initial meet, thanks to a raven borrowed from Leliana.

The Chargers hung back as they arrived at the rendezvous, prepping their weapons and armor, except for Krem, who would be in command of the Chargers during the attack when it happened and whose opinions the Iron Bull had come to count on over the years.

Ren stood next to the Iron Bull, watching him, as they waited. He was still uncomfortable about all of this, she could tell, but there was little outward sign of it. “Is your contact somewhere around?”

“He is.” Out of the underbrush came a thin, wiry elf who looked up at the Iron Bull with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Good to see you again, Hissrad.”

The Iron Bull grinned at him, glad to see the familiar face. “Gatt! Last I heard you were still in Seheron.”

“They finally decided I'd calmed down enough to go back out into the world.”

“Boss, this is Gatt. We worked together in Seheron. Gatt, the Inquisitor.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Gatt said courteously. “Hissrad's reports say you're doing good work.”

“The Iron Bull's name is Hissrad?” Ren frowned. She thought he'd said his name was just a string of numbers.

Gatt shook his head. “Under the Qun, we use titles, not names.”

“My title was Hissrad because I was assigned secret work. You can translate it as 'keeper of illusions', or—“

“Liar. It means liar,” Gatt broke in. There was a message in the look he gave the Iron Bull, and it brought home to Ren just how far the Iron Bull had come from his roots. Clearly the Qunari were far less given to floweriness than the Iron Bull's definitions would suggest, and Gatt was having none of the Iron Bull's self-delusions. Ren took an immediate dislike to the Qunari elf.

“Well, you don't have to say it like that,” the Iron Bull snapped. He hadn't missed the message, either, and the reminder didn't sit well with him.

Ren pasted a smile on her face. “It's so nice to hear that friends say nice things about me in their secret spy reports.”

“He does ... but they're not really secret, are they?” Gatt said, radiating disapproval. Ren wondered if he disapproved of her in general, of her calling the Iron Bull a friend, or of the Iron Bull's openness about his work with the Ben-Hassrath.

The Iron Bull watched the two of them, aware of the instant dislike that had sprung up between them. It wasn't really a surprise; Gatt was a true believer, one who would not approve of the Iron Bull's rather whole-hearted embrace of his role as a southern merc commander, and Ren had little patience for zealotry of any kind. It made her a good choice for Inquisitor, because it kept the Inquisition from descending into such an extreme of Andrastianism that it would turn off nonbelievers, but it didn't help in this case. Ren's flippancy wasn't about to win her any friends among the Qunari. “Look, Gatt—“ he began, but the elf cut him off with an upraised hand.

“Relax. Unlike our superiors, I know how it works out here.” He unbent, just a little. “We're in this together. The Tevinter Imperium is bad enough without the influence of this Venatori cult.”

Both Ren and the Iron Bull tensed at that, each highly aware of Dorian standing behind them, and neither were surprised when his drawling, Imperium-accented voice cut into the conversation. “Yes, filthy, decadent brutes, the lot of them. I'm certain life would be much better for all of us under the Qun.”

Gatt's lip curled in disgust, and he snapped, “It was for me, after the Qunari rescued me from slavery in Tevinter. I was eight. The Qun isn't perfect, but it gave me a better life.”

“One free from all that pointless free will and independent thought. Such an improvement.”

The Iron Bull was frozen; he wanted Dorian to stop talking before he and Gatt came to blows, but he didn't want to talk to the mage and risk revealing to Gatt that the Vint was ... a friend? An ally? Someone he trusted at his back? Something along those lines.

Ren had no such hesitancy, however. She glared at Dorian over her shoulder, then transferred the glare to Gatt, making it clear she didn't consider him to have any authority over her. “Arguing about the war between your two nations isn't going to do anyone any good right now. Let's focus on what we're here for.”

Dorian nodded, looking at least somewhat contrite, and Gatt said, “I'm not here to convert anyone. All I care about is stopping this red lyrium from reaching Minrathous.”

“With this stuff, the Vints could make their slaves into an army of magical freaks,” the Iron Bull agreed. He thought about the way the Templars had looked in Haven, and imagined a Vint army with the same power, terrorizing Seheron. “We could lose Seheron ... and see a giant Tevinter army come marching back down here.”

“The Ben-Hassrath agree,” Gatt said. “That's why we're here.” He gestured toward the ocean, whose sound and smell the Iron Bull hadn't even registered yet, which was a good indicator of how off-kilter this whole mission had him. “Our dreadnought is safely out of view, and out of reach of any Venatori mages on shore,” Gatt continued. “We'll need to eliminate the Venatori, and then signal the dreadnought so it can come in and take out the smuggler ship.”

“Does that work for you, Bull?” Ren asked him.

The Iron Bull frowned. “Don't know. I've never liked covering a dreadnought run. Too many ways for crap to go wrong. If our scouts underestimate enemy numbers, we're dead. If we can't lock down the Venatori mages, the ship is dead. It's risky.” Risky on both sides, though, the Qunari standing to lose a precious dreadnought if things went wrong, which made him feel slightly less concerned that this was some sort of trap.

“Riskier than letting red lyrium into Minrathous?” Gatt asked.

“Fine.” Ren nodded sharply. “Let's get this bargain started.”

“Good.” Gatt unrolled a map. “My agents suggested two possible locations the Venatori may be camped to guard the shore. We'll need to split up and hit both at once.”

Krem came forward, and he and the Iron Bull both studied the map. Ren stood back and let them confer, aware that they both knew the Storm Coast far better than she did. At last they looked at each other, nodding, clearly in agreement.

“I'll come with you, boss. Krem can lead the Chargers,” the Iron Bull said.

She was relieved; she hadn't particularly wanted to let him out of her sight with this Qunari elf around. She trusted Gatt about as far as she could throw him.

The Iron Bull walked off with Krem, and Ren could hear him barking orders. She knew he and Krem were going over every detail of the assault to come, the Iron Bull offering advice and telling Krem how to do his job and Krem replying with a steady stream of insults, both of them pretending hard that they didn't care about one another and weren't worried that the other wouldn't make it through.

“Horns up!” the Iron Bull said, and the Chargers laughed. Their responding “Horns up!” rang across the clearing before they turned around and headed down the mountain toward the nest of Venatori that would be their part of the battle today.

As Dorian and Blackwall went on ahead, and the Iron Bull lagged a bit behind, looking over his shoulder in the direction the Chargers had gone, Ren found herself walking with Gatt up the rocky mountain path.

“So you and the Iron Bull have known each other since he fought in Seheron?” she asked.

“Yes. He was part of the group that freed me. My master had brought me along with him ... for company.” Gatt's voice thickened, anger coloring it. “Hissrad and his men attacked my master's ship and set me free.”

“And you decided to start following the Qun after that?” 

“What do you think? I'd just seen a horned giant kill the man who had been hurting me my whole life. The Qun looked pretty good after that.”

“Bull never told me that story.”

“That’s one of the few things he hasn’t told you, I gather,” Gatt said, and she could see in his face that he thought there was more to the relationship between herself and the Iron Bull than there was. Not for the first time, she wondered if getting close to her in a more physical sense, to truly worm his way into her trust, had been one of the Iron Bull's orders. If it had been, he hadn't done a particularly good job of it, she thought with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. Or were they worried that an intimacy had sprung up against orders, she wondered with a sudden sharp concern. Was that what this proposed alliance was about, keeping closer tabs on the Iron Bull? Was all this some kind of set-up? She could have kicked herself for not thinking of that before they got here. If she had, she could have come up with some type of counter-measure.

“Is he in trouble over passing on those reports?” she asked, not that she expected Gatt to tell her the truth either way. 

Gatt shrugged. “The Ben-Hassrath aren't pleased with how forthcoming he's been ... but he's one of their best agents. He kept the streets clean in Seheron longer than anyone before him—or since. He fought until it nearly killed him.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the Iron Bull. “Besides, the Qunari like to preserve any resource that has some value left in it. That's why I still have a job.”

“Following the Qun hasn't always been easy for you?”

“I had a temper. Have a temper,” Gatt corrected himself. “Hissrad's nickname for me, Gatt, comes from gaatlok, the explosive powder in Qunari cannons. It took me a long time to accept the Qun; to get past justice to purpose. Some days are still difficult.”

Ren looked him over. She still didn't like him, but in the calm that had come over him while he talked she thought she could glimpse what made the Qun attractive to some types. There was an assurance in Gatt that he knew what his role was; not unlike the way she had felt when she had been made Inquisitor officially, she supposed, although she had been and still was scared to death of the role at the same time.

Gatt slowed to let the Iron Bull catch up to them. “You gave your men the easier job.”

“You think?”

“Lower and farther from the smugglers' ship? It's much less likely to be heavily defended.”

“I suppose we'll do the heavy lifting, then.” The Iron Bull smiled grimly. “It'll be just like old times.” He looked over his shoulder anxiously, though, belying his confident words.

Gatt laughed. “You worry too much.”

The Iron Bull glanced back over his shoulder again. “They're my men,” he said simply. “Some of them have been with me for years.”

Ren wondered exactly how old he was. If he'd spent years as a mercenary, and years in Seheron before that ... forty, maybe? Mid-thirties? Did Qunari live longer than other races, or the same length of time? She was 25, and that felt young, especially on nights when Cullen and Leliana started reminiscing about the Blight. Sometimes she wondered why they all let someone of her youth and inexperience run the Inquisition ... but they did, and most days their confidence in her gave her strength when she wanted to run and hide from the weight of what she had to accomplish.

There was an advance of Venatori in front of them, and Ren took advantage of being in the back of the pack to get low and move stealthily through the thick grass, coming out of it behind one of the Venatori and slitting his throat. The others were all engaged in the battle by that point, and there was a loud, bloody few minutes before the last Venatori fell.

The Iron Bull slapped a bandage on a cut on his upper arm, and Dorian healed a wounded shoulder.

Gatt watched Dorian with undisguised hostility. “You must wish you were back in Tevinter, mage. No soldiers to guard you here, no slaves to wait on you.” 

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “So true. But it's the lack of fashion that really strikes fear into my heart,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

“You know nothing of fear,” Gatt said in a low voice like a blade's edge.

In a similarly sharp and deadly tone, one she rarely heard from him, Dorian said, “And you intend to teach me?”

Gatt pulled back from the potential conflict. “No. You serve the Inquisition, and the Ben-Hassrath wish an alliance. It's enough, for now.”

“For now, eh?” Dorian said under his breath to Ren. “I'd watch that one if I were you.”

“I am. Bull may trust him, but that doesn't mean the rest of us can.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

The Iron Bull glanced at them. He didn't need to hear their words to know what they were saying; neither did Gatt, who was watching Ren and the mage closely. Not that anyone expected them to trust Gatt, but it wasn't good to be too open about it.

“Come on,” the Iron Bull said loudly. “Let's go find the rest of these Vints and take 'em out. I want to see that dreadnought in action.”

Gatt gave him a grim smile. “Just like old times.”


	15. His Place in the World

“Where are the rest of the Venatori?” Ren asked Gatt.

“Up ahead. On that knoll.” He pointed.

“Good. The rest of you head up that way; I'll go around, take out any outliers.”

Gatt looked questioningly at the Iron Bull, who nodded. Ren disappeared into the underbrush, only the faint swaying of the grasses testifying to her passage. “You two seem cozy,” Gatt said, falling in next to the Iron Bull as they made their way up the mountain.

“Mind your own business.”

“Just saying.” Gatt looked around at Dorian and Blackwall, who were behind them a bit. The Iron Bull was fairly sure Dorian's sharp ears could hear anything they said, and while Blackwall had been stolidly silent so far, as was his way, that didn't mean he wasn't paying attention. The Grey Warden was sharp and intelligent. Gatt continued, “I'm told to tell you that your reports have been on the skimpy side.”

“Since what, since we all nearly died at Haven? The Ben-Hassrath really want to hear about the days we spent clearing all the crap out of the buildings at Skyhold, or—“

“Don't play dumb with me, Hissrad. I know you too well.”

“Look, you pass on the message that the reports will pick up as soon as there's anything to report.”

“That's not what you're there for.”

“I can't make things happen.”

“Try harder,” Gatt snapped.

“Would you two like to keep it down, or are we planning on announcing our presence?” Blackwall asked from behind them, and they both shut up.

Ahead, the Venatori camp was relatively quiet; but not for long. A cry erupted from the edge of camp, then another. The Iron Bull shook his head; Ren was getting sloppy if she let the marks cry out like that. He'd have to mention that to her later.

Meanwhile, there was fighting to do. He threw himself into the combat, feeling the bloodlust rising, the problems he carried in his head silenced when all there was to do was slice and strike and block. He felt a disquiet; where were the Venatori mages? There weren't nearly enough in this bunch. He hoped the Chargers hadn't gotten hit with too many. Mages were hard to take out, and it was only a strike force of Chargers he had brought along, too small to handle more than a couple of mages.

Ren joined the rest of her team when the last of the Venatori were down. The Iron Bull made sure the ones at his feet were dead, then told Gatt to send up the signal.

The elf knelt, and a flare of red light flew into the sky. The Iron Bull pointed across the water to the opposite knoll, where a similar light had already gone up. “Chargers sent theirs up, too,” he said with relief.

Gatt looked over, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ren didn't like that smile; but then, there wasn't much about Gatt that she did like. “I knew you gave them the easier job,” he said, and the corner of the Iron Bull's mouth turned up, too, sheepishly, not denying it.

From the mists on the ocean, a long dark shape emerged. It looked dangerous even to Ren, who had never seen one before. It reminded her of pictures she had seen of sharks ... or dragons. The Iron Bull nudged her with his elbow. “Pretty fucking amazing, isn't she? That does bring back memories.” He sighed.

As they watched, fireballs erupted from the dreadnought and landed in the midst of the Tevinter ship that was hove to near the opposite side of the cove. It went up in flames, and Ren breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't expected things to go as planned.

Apparently she'd been correct, too, because while she was watching the Tevinter ship burn, the Iron Bull said, “Crap,” in a voice like doom.

Ren followed his gaze and saw a sizeable force of Tevinters, mostly mages to judge from the armor, heading toward the knoll where the Chargers waited. “Crap,” she echoed. Turning, she saw that Dorian and Blackwall were already on the move, heading back the way they had come to offer reinforcement ... but they wouldn't get there in time.

The Chargers had seen the Venatori coming, as well, and were readying themselves for the battle.

“They can't stand against that kind of force,” Ren said.

“No. They can't.” The Iron Bull heard his own voice raw with pain, a rare sound. Those were his men, his people. He had hand-picked each one of them, trained them, built them into a fighting force ... a family, if he understood such things right. He knew their names and their taste in alcohol and which ones were best on night watch and which preferred the early morning ...

“Your men need to hold that position, Hissrad,” Gatt said, a warning in his voice, as if he had seen the Iron Bull's thoughts on his face.

The Iron Bull looked down at his old friend. “They do that, they're dead.” Even under the Qun, you didn't let your people die unless there was a damn good reason.

“And if they don't, the Venatori retake that knoll and the dreadnought is dead.”

Looking from Gatt's narrowed green eyes to the Iron Bull's face, which betrayed a torment deeper than even he could hide, Ren couldn't help but wonder how accidental this was. Had Gatt really not known there were Venatori reinforcements out here? Or was this all an elaborate test, a way to remind the Inquisition—and the Iron Bull himself—who really held the Iron Bull's reins? Whichever way it went, she didn't like it. Either the Qunari people who had set up this mission were incompetent, or they were willing to throw away her people's lives to prove a point. And she'd be damned if she was going to ally her Inquisition with them now.

Gatt's eyes narrowed further as he looked at her; she made no effort to hide her disgust with him or the people he represented. “Let me lay it out for you very simply, Inquisitor, Hissrad. If you jeopardize that dreadnought, you will be throwing away any chance for an alliance between the Inquisition and the Qunari. And you—“ He looked up at the Iron Bull. “You'd be declaring yourself Tal-Vashoth.”

It was the biggest weapon in the Qunari arsenal. To declare officially that someone as proud as the Iron Bull was no better in his people's eyes than the crazed mercenaries that terrorized northern Thedas ... it was the final straw. If it had been up to Ren, Gatt would have had a dagger in his throat right now.

The Iron Bull was staring at the Chargers, stricken. The Venatori were closing in on their position; Dorian and Blackwall were nowhere to be seen. There was no help coming, not in time. Could he let his people die and live with himself? Could he turn his back on the Qun and live with himself?

Who was he, anyway? He felt as though his mind had betrayed him, not to expect this decision today. He should have known it was coming, prepared himself for it.

Gatt's eyes widened as he sensed the decision hanging in the balance. “With all you've given the Inquisition, half the Ben-Hassrath think you've betrayed us already! I stood up for you, Hissrad. I told them that you would never become Tal-Vashoth.”

“They're my men!” the Iron Bull shouted, goaded out of his stoicism. “My men! Think about what you're asking, Gatt.” His hand clenched around the horn. There were only a few moments left in which it could be used—what was he going to do? Which would he choose, his past or his present? In which direction did he want his future to lie?

“I know,” Gatt said softly. “But you need to do what's right, Hissrad. For this alliance, and for the Qun.”

The Iron Bull turned to Ren, who had stood silent through all this, hoping she would say something, anything, that would cut through the dissonant voices in his head and tell him what to do. But she shook her head.

“I can't ... This has to be yours, Iron Bull. This isn't my call.” She wanted it to be. Thinking of Krem, who had been her friend since the beginning, of Rocky and Stitches, of Dalish and Grim and Skinner ... They had made her an honorary Charger, drunk with her and sang songs with her. They were her people, too. They were Inquisition. Everything in her told her not to let this happen. But it was not her choice. Not this time.

She looked away from the Iron Bull so he wouldn't see the tears come to her eyes and be influenced by her. His life was being ripped apart, and her heart ached for him, but she couldn’t let him see that, either. The last thing he would want right now, the last thing he needed in the midst of his turmoil, was to feel that she pitied him.

Behind her, she heard the blast of the horn cutting through the air, calling out to the Chargers to fall back, and her heart lifted.

Looking back across the cove, Ren watched their heads go up, saw them disappear back into the underbrush before the Venatori got high enough up the knoll to see them. Dorian and Blackwall hadn't appeared, either, so it seemed they would all get away today.

Except the dreadnought. She looked at Gatt, whose face was white with rage and ... sorrow, she thought. He appeared to genuinely like the Iron Bull, and to have been certain of which way the choice would go. “All these years, Hissrad,” he said. “And you throw away everything that you are. For what? For this? For her?” He looked at Ren with the same disgust she felt toward him.

“Leave her out of this,” the Iron Bull said, looming over Gatt. “That was for my people. And I would do it again. Every time. The Ben-Hassrath put me where I am; they gave me this responsibility. If remaining Ben-Hassrath, remaining Qunari, means shirking my responsibility to the men who trust me, then it's not what I thought it was.” They were big words; they felt like the right words. The trouble was, he wasn’t sure if he believed them. He was Qunari—that meant something, didn’t it?

“You're not who I thought you were, Hissrad.”

“His name is the Iron Bull,” Ren snapped, tired of the sneering tone of the elf's voice.

“I suppose it is.” Gatt looked at her, his lip curling. “Enjoy your victory, Inquisitor.” He pushed past them and stalked off into the rainy countryside. Ren suspected they hadn't seen the last of him.

The Iron Bull confirmed it. “He'll go report in to his superiors; we'll probably see him in camp later.”

She looked up at him, wanting to ask how he was, but his face was closed off and he cut the air sharply with his hand to indicate how little he wanted to talk right now. Side-by-side, they watched as the Venatori mages reclaimed the knoll, and as a series of fireballs pounded the sides of the dreadnought.

“When it sinks, should we go down and look for survivors?” Ren asked softly.

“No. Qunari dreadnoughts don't sink.”

On the water, the ship exploded in a huge spout of fire, raining debris into the water around it. The Iron Bull watched until there was nothing more to be seen; he didn't miss the fact that Ren stood with him, not moving, not talking. Just there.

“Come on,” he said at last. “Let's get back to my boys.”

The camp was subdued. No one was happy that they'd left the Venatori in command of the knoll, even when Ren assured them she'd have Cullen send soldiers to take them out—the way she privately thought she should have done from the beginning. The constant rain didn’t help the mood, either. It finally let up toward the late afternoon, about the time Gatt appeared in camp, making his way through the knot of Chargers toward the Iron Bull. Ren joined them.

“Oh, good. Both of you,” Gatt said, sneering. “That'll make this quicker. Inquisitor, it is my duty to inform you that there will be no alliance between our peoples.”

“No. There won't. I didn't realize you thought that was still on the table,” she said, folding her arms over her chest.

“Nor will you be receiving any more Ben-Hassrath reports from your Tal-Vashoth ally.”

“You under orders to kill me, Gatt?” the Iron Bull asked.

The Chargers were hovering not far away; if Gatt made a move on the Iron Bull, he wasn't getting far.

He knew it, too. “No.” There was real regret in his voice. “The Ben-Hassrath have already lost one good man; they'd rather not lose two.” He gave Ren an ironic bow, and the Iron Bull a final, sorrowful look, and he left the camp, the Chargers moving apart to let him pass.

“So much for that,” the Iron Bull said, watching his old friend go. 

Next to him, Ren sighed. “It's a ridiculous thing to say, I suppose, but ... I'm proud of you, Bull.”

He blinked, not having expected that, or the warm glow that filled him at her words. “Thanks, boss. Say ...”

“What?”

“What would you have done? If I'd let the Chargers be overrun?”

“You wouldn't have.”

“Yeah, all right. But if I had.”

“I'd have sent you home with Gatt,” Ren said instantly. She would have, too, no matter how much it would have hurt her to do it. “There's no room in the Inquisition for a commander who won't protect his men.”

“So there was no chance of an alliance with the Qunari, either way.”

“You honestly think that was a real offer?” she asked him. “I don't. I think they set you up.”

Now he was really surprised, and that happened to him rarely. “Do you?”

“Yes. We were never given details on the number of Venatori on the coast; Gatt didn't consult us when he set up the plan; he knew you'd send the Chargers to what looked like the easier position.” She risked a smile at him. “Apparently everyone knows you're a big softie.”

“Hey!”

Ren's smile widened affectionately at his protest, and the Iron Bull’s mouth twitched in response, a tiny easing of the tension in him that she was glad to see.

She nodded, thinking about it further. “If you and I had had the chance to make a plan for this mission, it would have gone a lot better, and no one would have been surprised by all the Venatori mages suddenly appearing where they weren't expected to be.”

“Probably not,” the Iron Bull conceded. He didn't want to think it of Gatt ... but it was possible.

“For them, it must have seemed like a win-win. They'd pull your leash, let me know unequivocally where your loyalties really lay, cut out the threat the Chargers represented to those loyalties, make you a sharper, leaner spy within the Inquisition.”

He looked down at her, frowning a little. He wasn't sure he agreed with her assessment, but he liked that she was thinking that way. When they'd met, she wouldn't have. “And what if it was all for show?” he asked softly, moving just a little closer to her. “A piece of theater to convince you I'm on your side, solidify my place in the Inquisition?”

Ren looked up at him, her blue eyes meeting his. Suddenly they were soft, warm, the invitation in them unmistakable. For a moment he had to remember how to breathe. “Then they wasted a lot of people's time. There's nothing open to you now that you couldn't have had yesterday.”

He thought of the pale blue smallclothes that were in his pack, which hadn't been out of his possession since she'd left them for him, and no longer had any doubt that she'd left them on purpose. He didn't know what to say to that, not right now, at least.

Ren didn't seem to need a response. She chuckled. “Of course, your dreadful tendency to tell me these things is something they wouldn't have counted on, either. If you were playing a long game on me, pretending to be made Tal-Vashoth in order to gain more of my trust, you really stabbed yourself in the foot by mentioning it.”

“You've got a point, boss. Forget I said anything, will you?” They both laughed.

Krem came up to them then. “That what I think it was, Chief?”

“Yeah. The Qun and I appear to have parted ways.” The Iron Bull was proud of how steady his voice was.

Krem nodded, not commenting. What was there to say, really?

“That fight was a bit dicier than I'd expected,” Ren said.

“We knew you and the Chief had our backs, Your Worship.”

Ren was flattered that they would even count her in next to the Iron Bull. It said a great deal.

“The Chief's even breaking out a cask of Chasind sack mead for us,” Krem continued.

The Iron Bull growled at him. “Damn it, Krem, that's the kind of thing you don't need to say in front of the Inquisitor.”

“Please. I'd be able to tell. Last time you boys got into the Chasind sack mead, you ended up trying to race goats on the battlements.”

Krem laughed. “I still think mine won.”

“It fell off.”

“Wasn't that winning?”

Ren shook her head. “I'll leave you to it, for now. Save me a cup later. One cup,” she added. The last thing she needed tonight was something to lower her inhibitions and convince her to make a move on the Iron Bull tonight, when he was vulnerable. Best to wait until he'd had a chance to decide his place in the world.


	16. Where I Want to Be

It didn't escape the Iron Bull's attention that Ren gave him a wide berth in the first couple of weeks following his ejection from the Qun. Not that he minded; he was grateful to her for not adding further confusion to an already difficult transition. But it surprised him, too—she was a talker, and would have wanted to discuss what happened, he would have thought. He appreciated that she was willing to let him not talk.

Not that leaving him be had been easy for Ren. She walked a fine line between treating him normally and walking on eggshells to avoid potentially sensitive topics, and that wasn't something she was used to, with him, particularly.

A week in the Western Approach fighting Venatori and varghests and hyenas and those ever-present giant spiders had helped them both. The work of fighting was relaxing, straightforward, and fairly uncomplicated, especially together. Ren hadn't gone into a fight without him at her side since the day they'd met, which sometimes worried her. Was she becoming too reliant on him providing a distraction so she could melt into the shadows and take things down in her preferred style?

But that was a problem for another day; for now, it was enough that they had both worked out some of their aggression and uncertainty on targets that had put up just enough of a fight to be worth while. The nights on expedition had been long ones, keeping their distance in the confines of small, four-person camps. The Iron Bull had spent a lot of time sparring with Cassandra and talking about tactics with her; Ren had played a lot of diamondback and Wicked Grace with Dorian, who beat her handily almost every time. She was a fine player, but didn't have Dorian's flawless memory for the turn of a card.

Ren hadn't had a lot of thinking to do; in her mind, the Iron Bull having been officially named Tal-Vashoth was more a good thing than a negative. It removed the worry that had always nagged at her, even if she had never voiced it, even to herself, that someday he would go back to the Qunari when his assignment was over. And she felt about him the way she had since the Inquisition's arrival in Skyhold—she was lonely and tired of living her life celibate, and in her time with the Inquisition she hadn't met anybody she wanted, in bed and out, more than the Iron Bull. If she were going to be brutally honest, she'd have to admit she'd never met anyone she wanted more in her whole life, but she hadn't looked inside herself that deeply. Didn't need to, really—other than her position and the propriety of the thing, which she was increasingly less concerned about, there wasn't anything keeping her from pursuing her desires.

For the Iron Bull, it was a different story. He had never intended to be named Tal-Vashoth; the shock and shame of it still resonated within him like the aftershocks of an earthquake. In his mind, there had always been the hope that someday he could go home to Seheron and end his days walking the beaches in peace, maybe fighting the occasional giant spider. Now that was gone, and in its place was ... blankness. Lack of direction. No purpose, no self, no definition. Was this how southerners lived all the time? It was, frankly, fucking terrifying, and he didn't like things that made him afraid.

And without knowing who he was in the first place, he really couldn't even begin to contemplate where Ren fit into his new life. He wouldn't have disagreed with her assessment—there was no one he wanted more, in bed or out. He looked forward to spending time with her more than he looked forward to spending time with Krem, which was saying something. But nothing in his past had taught him what to do when desire and friendship centered on the same person. That wasn't the way it was supposed to be, according to the Qun.

On the other hand, his mind and body had fled the Qun where Ren was concerned months ago. When her face started appearing in his fantasies and during sex with other women; when he began to recognize that his desire to kiss her was to fulfill a need of mind and soul as much as it was a need of body. That didn't mean he liked it, or that he knew just what to do with the feelings, so he'd ignored them.

That state of affairs wasn't going to last forever. She'd been uncharacteristically patient with him, and the day was coming when she'd back him against the wall—possibly literally—and force him to make a decision. The way Gatt had. And the consequences either way could be equally devastating.

Thinking of it, the Iron Bull groaned. He needed to hit something. Right now.

On his way to Cullen's office, hoping the commander would have some time, he ran into Leliana coming out. Her face was flushed and vivid with color; no question she was a beautiful woman. Not as beautiful as the Inquisitor, but up there.

“Ah, Iron Bull,” she said. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Sure. What's on your mind?”

She glanced back over her shoulder at the guard walking by. Without really thinking about it, the Iron Bull found the guard's name and details in his mental library—Shiri, elf from the Val Royeaux alienage, joined up a week after their arrival at Skyhold. He nodded at her.

Leliana led him down the steps a little way, so they could both see what was coming and going. “There are some new guards in the keep,” she said quietly. “They think they've arrived unnoticed, but they're not as good as they think they are.”

“I get you.” He'd expected something like this; the Ben-Hassrath weren't the type to let someone go without marking the occasion.

“Do you wish me to take care of them for you?”

“Nah. I've got it. Can you arrange the rotation so I know where they'll be?”

Leliana smiled. “Already done. Check with Cullen.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Cullen offered to help, too, and the Iron Bull felt oddly warmed by both of their concern. To them, he was no different now than he had been before—if anything, he was more firmly the Inquisition's than he had been before. And now the leadership of the Inquisition was offering to fight on his behalf. Would the leadership of the Qunari do the same for an admitted spy in their midst? The Qunari would call this southern weakness, but these were not weak people. He knew them too well to think so.

With that in mind, he sent a note to the Inquisitor through Flissa, asking her to meet him where he suspected the ambush would be. If he was going to have help, he was going straight to the top.

Ren looked at the note in surprise. In the afternoon, on top of the battlements, probably didn't mean anything personal ... but it was the first contact he had made directly with her since the Storm Coast and the destruction of the dreadnought. That had to be a good thing. Without really thinking about it, she tucked the note, with his distinctive scrawl all over it, into her desk drawer, where it lay on top of a few other business-like notes in a similar scrawl. For her records, she'd have said if anyone asked her.

He was waiting on the top of the battlements when she came through the door at the top of the tavern. “You wanted to see me?”

The Iron Bull nodded, but before he could say anything, the door at the other end of the section of battlement opened and two men, both in Inquisition uniforms, came out of it. One of them pulled an axe, and the Iron Bull turned and smashed him in the face with his massive fist.

The other one had a knife out, and before Ren could react the knife was sailing through the air. It lodged in the Iron Bull's shoulder, knocking him back a few steps. He grunted with the pain, yanking the knife free, and hurled it into the throat of the man with the axe.

The knife-thrower was preparing a second attack, this time with a shortsword. “Bull!” Ren said, pulling her own hidden dagger.

“I've got it,” he snapped.

“ _Ebost issala_ , Tal-Vashoth!” the knife-thrower growled.

The Iron Bull swatted the shortsword aside, picking the man up and dropping him over the side of Skyhold, watching as the body fell and landed on the snow-covered rocks far below, a red stain spreading across the white snow. “Yeah, yeah, my soul is dust. Yours is scattered all over the ground, though, so ...” He grunted, rolling his injured shoulder. “Sorry, boss. I thought I might need some back-up.”

“And you didn't think to warn me?”

“Didn't think you needed any warning.”

“Thanks, I think.”

He snorted, looking at the body on the ground. “Guess I'm not even worth sending professionals for.”

“You knew the assassins were coming?”

“Ben-Hassrath like to get the last word. Leliana tipped me off to a little change in the guard rotations while we were gone.”

She looked at the shoulder wound. Blood was trickling from it slowly. “You all right?”

“Fine. I've hurt myself worse than this fooling around in bed.” 

They were both silent for a moment at that, trying to decide if they were going to take the opening or not.

Ren chose to stick with the topic at hand. “What if they used poison?”

The Iron Bull laughed at that. The idea that the Ben-Hassrath wouldn't have used poison would never have occurred to him. “Oh, they definitely used poison. Saar-qamek, liquid form. If I hadn't been dosing myself with the antidote, I'd be going crazy and puking my guts up right now. As it is, it stings like shit, but that's about it.”

“Well, then, I'm glad you've been dosing yourself. Nursemaid has never been my strong point.” For a moment, she thought about the last sick bed she'd attended, her brother Gawen's, his little hand so cold in hers. But that time was gone now, long ago, and it had no place here. She pushed the memory away firmly. “I'd hoped the Ben-Hassrath would let you go.”

“They did.” He smiled. “Sending two guys with blades against me? That's not a hit; that's a formality.”

“So are they done with you now, or can we expect more of this?”

“No, I think they're done. They've made it clear that I'm Tal-Vashoth, that's all they really wanted.” He turned away from her, looking out over the mountains around Skyhold. “Tal-Va-fucking-shoth.”

“You acted like a Tal-Vashoth for years. That didn't change you. Neither does this.”

“You think that didn't change me? The Ben-Hassrath would say it led to this. I'm not the man who left Seheron.” The Iron Bull frowned. “That was just a role, though. This is my life, as one of those ...” He looked down at her. “I killed hundreds of Tal-Vashoth in Seheron. Bandits, murderers, bastards who turned their back on the Qun. And now I'm one of them.”

“Bullshit. You are not,” Ren said. “I've killed my share of Tal-Vashoth, too, remember. Not hundreds, but quite a few. And there's no comparison. You're a good man. You think a Tal-Vashoth could command the loyalty of the Chargers? You think Leliana would have been looking out for a Tal-Vashoth?” She left herself out of the litany, not wanting to add that confusion to this issue.

The Iron Bull looked at her for a moment. He seemed tired, she thought, unusual for him, and she wished she could hold him, offer him comfort. But that was near the heart of the issue, wasn't it? That a Qunari wouldn't accept physical comfort; wouldn't even need it.

“If I don't have the Qun to live by ...” he said, letting the words trail off.

“Who says you don't? Gatt? Some random superiors somewhere in Seheron or Par Vollen? Fuck that,” Ren snapped. “You decide the words you live by, not anyone else. If you're not going to live by the Qun, you choose that because the Qun no longer makes sense to you—not because someone told you that you couldn't live by it because you didn't let a bunch of people you were responsible for die for someone else's mistake.”

There was a fire in her blue eyes that he had rarely seen; she was angry. And it touched him to the heart that she was angry on his behalf, that she was fighting him so that he could keep his identity. “That's not the way it works,” he said gently.

“Yes, it is! I was contracted to the Chantry by my family—do you think that made me an Andrastian? They could have kept me on my knees singing their damned Chant for a month, and that still wouldn’t have made me believe it.”

“It’s not only about what I believe.”

“Yeah, okay, so you're not a Ben-Hassrath spy anymore. And I'm sorry about your friend, and that you can't go back to Seheron. I'm not trying to minimize that loss, but ... Damn it, Iron Bull, you're a good man. If the Ben-Hassrath don't see that, that's their loss. What they were thinking drawing that line in the sand over one decision, I don't know, but I'm not going to let you think less of yourself because they were idiots.”

“Boss ...” He was at a loss for words, rare enough for him, and he wanted nothing more than to give her a hug, which wasn't an impulse he remembered ever having before. Maybe there was something to this southern melding of body and mind and heart in a relationship with another person, he thought. Maybe there was. “Thanks,” he said at last. He cleared his throat, looking down at the almost-forgotten body at their feet. “Anyway. I'll get this cleaned up and check in with Leliana, let her know this thing is taken care of.”

“And you'll think about what I said?” Ren asked, unwilling to let it go.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She turned, not trusting herself to stay any longer without pushing farther than she should. The depth of her anger at his defeatism had surprised her already.

His voice stopped her. “Morvoren.”

She looked back at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Whatever I miss, whatever I regret ...” He moved closer to her, so close that she could smell the scent of smoke and salt and leather on his skin. “This is where I want to be.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” she said, surprised that her voice worked; his nearness and the softness in his voice and the intensity in his eye were having an effect on her that was very dangerous to rational thought. “This is where I want you to be, too.”

He couldn't help a faint smile at that. Then he took a step back. If he were going to pursue this ... thing between them, it would require consideration and thought, and he would have to come to terms with who he was and who he wanted to be first. Clearing his throat, he said, “Whenever you need an ass kicked, the Iron Bull is with you.”

Ren recognized the change in tone, and let it happen. For now. But her patience was running out. “Next time I can't do my own ass-kicking, I'll let you know.”


	17. Decision

They left for Crestwood the next day, ready to meet with Hawke and his Grey Warden contact. On arriving at the Inquisition's base camp in the area, little Scout Harding was waiting for them. She was everywhere, and always on top of every situation. Cute as a bug, too, the Iron Bull thought, and had eyes only for the Inquisitor, as far as he could tell. Not that he blamed her. Today, though, Harding was a bit less cute than usual, covered in seaweed and decaying body parts, with the constant rain running down her face. She had just come up from the town of Crestwood, which was under siege by the undead.

Of all things. Demons he could handle, he supposed. Fighting alongside mages, even weird ones like Solas, could be gotten used to. But the dead rising from their watery grave? That was too much.

He almost said as much to Ren, but she was in the middle of doing what she did best—well, second best, next to fighting—making the rounds of Crestwood and talking to the people, learning what their troubles were.

The Iron Bull hung back, walking with Varric. The dwarf was hard to match steps with, but he was a good companion and almost as observant as the Iron Bull himself.

“Hey, Tiny.”

“Yeah?”

“How's the adjustment to being Tal-Vashoth going?”

“Why, you going to add me to a story?” he snapped.

“Thinking about it.”

The Iron Bull grunted. “Good. It's about time. Now, I want you to make sure you get the musculature right, because this took a lot of work. I think words like 'rippling' would be good. Or 'ripped.' Yeah, 'ripped' is good.”

Varric chuckled. “So, something like 'The Iron Bull's belly was prone to rippling after every meal. He rarely wore shirts, as they ripped under the strain.' That work for you?”

He raised his eyebrow, staring down at Varric. “That hurts, Varric. That's hurtful.” 

Varric gave a dramatic sigh. “I guess you just can’t handle the truth.”

“I’ll give you some truth,” the Iron Bull growled, pleased that he had successfully distracted the dwarf from the Tal-Vashoth topic, which had been his goal.

Finished with her information gathering in the village, Ren led them out into the countryside around Crestwood. Chasing bandits, fighting wolves, the occasional undead wandering around ... it was business as usual. It was comforting to be here, in the rain and the darkness, fighting with the Iron Bull at her side. Things had been so confusing for such a long time; it was nice to have an enemy in front of her that was simply, uncomplicatedly evil. 

Down in a valley she saw the entrance to the dam that would drain the lake and hopefully allow them to get to the rift that was bringing the dead to life. As was her usual habit, she set her boots on the hillside and slid down, not waiting for the rest of them.

Behind her, the Iron Bull slid down, as well, while Varric and Solas went around by the road. Catching up to her, the Iron Bull grumbled, “Do you always have to go sliding down the mountain without looking for a path?”

Ren grinned. “I like the shortest distance between two points. I'm not long on patience, in case you haven't noticed. What's the problem?”

“It ruins your boots.”

She shrugged. “I don't care about my boots.”

“Spoken like someone who's never had to buy their own, and in sizes unheard of outside Seheron,” he said, his voice rumbling with disapproval.

Ren glanced up at him. “I'll get you new ones.”

“The Inquisition supplies me all right,” he said. “But if you're constantly running off I can't protect you.” He was looming over her now, rain dripping off his horns and running down his chest.

“It doesn't always have to be about protecting me, you know.”

“That's what I signed on to do.”

“But it's not why you stayed. Is it?” She moved forward, closer to him. “You— It's not an assignment any longer.”

He couldn’t lie to her, not with her so close, her eyes fixed on his. “No. It isn't.”

“Bull, I—“ Behind him, she saw Solas approaching, and she stepped away. “Never mind. We'll talk later.”

He watched her go, the rain beating on her head and rolling off the leather coat she wore. Talk, she said. The Iron Bull couldn't say he much wanted to talk; things as confusing, as distressing, and as emotional as the way she made him feel were things he generally preferred to push aside and pretend he didn't think about. Talking about feelings was not the Qunari way, to put it mildly. But he was Tal-Vashoth, now, not Qunari. Did that make a difference? Tal-Vashoth weren't much for talking about their feelings either, though—more for disemboweling people as a result of their feelings. If there was any chance he was going to go feral like that, maybe what he should do was stay far away from her, to avoid any chance he might take those feelings out on her. 

Fuck. One day life had been simple and uncomplicated, and now all this crap was swirling around in his head, making it impossible to think clearly. Maybe this was why so many Tal-Vashoth went crazy.

Following Ren into the caves deep beneath the drained lake, the Iron Bull chose to walk behind her, keeping pace with Solas. The mage was ... well, he was weird, no better word for it. And if there was anything the Iron Bull liked less than mages, it was weird mages, so mostly he kept away from Solas. But this trip it was either Ren, who was even more dangerous to be around than usual at the moment, or Varric, who was too damned perceptive. Solas suddenly seemed to be the lesser of the available evils.

“You seem troubled, Iron Bull,” Solas said. “Do you need a distraction to focus your mind?”

“Well, this area's low on dancing girls, sadly.”

Solas raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.” Then, unexpectedly, “King's pawn to E4.”

The Iron Bull turned to stare at the mage. “You're shitting me. We don't even have a board!”

“Too complicated for a savage Tal-Vashoth?”

“Yeah, all right. Smug little asshole,” the Iron Bull grumbled under his breath. “Pawn to E5.”

They were reaching the rift now, Ren's left hand up doing that disturbing magic meld thing she did with the rifts and the mark on her hand, and the demons were swarming her. The Iron Bull rushed into the combat, swinging his blade at the shades in his vicinity.

Over the din of battle, he heard Solas shout, “Pawn to F4. King's gambit.”

A shade melted into darkness at the Iron Bull's feet, and he whirled to attack a rage demon that was about to put its fiery claws into Ren. “Accepted,” he called back. “Pawn takes pawn. Let's see what you've got.”

It was a hard-fought game, especially as they played it while demons poured out of the rift. By the time the rift was closed and they had left the caves, the Iron Bull had Solas's king and a solitary rook on the run, crowding them back into a corner of the board.

The late afternoon sun was shining down now, the rain over now that the rift was closed. Ren looked up at the sky, judging the time. “Time enough to go find Hawke, you think?” she asked Varric. Behind them, the Iron Bull and Solas were still playing mental chess, a skill she was somehow surprised the Iron Bull possessed, even though she probably shouldn't have been. She found it incredibly sexy, which was clearly a sign that it had been way too long.

Hawke and his Warden friend Stroud were not as forthcoming with details as Ren would have liked. She remembered from stories Leliana and Cullen had told about the Blight that Wardens were cagey with information, and certainly Blackwall had never been overly free with details, but this was ridiculous. She felt as though she left Stroud's cave with no more information than she had come in with, only now instead of trekking all over northern Ferelden to find him, she was going to have to go back to southern Orlais and storm an ancient Grey Warden fortress that was apparently filled with demons.

“It's always something else,” she said wearily to the Iron Bull as they made camp. “One more battle, one more layer of people to fight, someone else to get information out of. Another decision to be made about who to bring and when to go and how seriously to take the information. Just once, I want someone to say 'here, this is what we're going to do, and this is when and this is how, and this is your job.' But I suppose that's not what I agreed to when I became Inquisitor.” She blinked back the tears that threatened. What she really wished was that she could give this damned Anchor to someone else and let them be the Inquisitor, but she couldn't say that to him. She couldn't say it to anyone.

Stroud had already left, but Hawke had stayed behind to spend more time with Varric, and he called across the camp to her before the Iron Bull could respond. “Varric and I are going to play some Wicked Grace. You in?” She nodded, and he grinned at her.

“Sounds like a good way to spend the evening.” Ren looked forward to it. She could play some cards and lose some money and let Varric and Hawke tell her stories, and that would be a nice break from all the rest of it.

“Count me out tonight,” the Iron Bull said.

She frowned at him. “You love Wicked Grace.”

He yielded for once to the ever-present temptation, and reached out to touch her shining hair, letting the silky strand slide between his fingers. “Not tonight.”

Ren looked up at him, wishing she understood what was going on in his head. Sometimes she thought she did, she thought she knew him, and then other times that damnable Qunari stoicism closed off his face and she wasn't sure she knew him at all. “Suit yourself.”

The Iron Bull found a dark corner of the camp, sprawling on the ground with his back against a rock. He held a mug of ale in his hand, but mostly to look like he was doing something. What he was really doing was thinking. To his surprise, Solas's little exercise had helped immeasurably—he could straighten out his thoughts now and put them in boxes again, worrying at them one at a time.

For the moment, the one at the top was the lone woman in the group. Watching her lit by the firelight, her face animated as she threw herself into the card game, was the real reason he had chosen this particular spot. And he could say it was for her protection all he wanted, but he was lying to himself.

He cared about her. He trusted her. She was the first thing he thought about when he woke up, and the last thing he thought about when he went to sleep. And he wanted her with a hunger that scared the shit out of him.

Qunari didn't put love and sex together; Qunari were deliberate about sex, using it as stress relief and healing and keeping it on the physical plane. Ben-Hassrath took that even further, using sex as a tool and sometimes as a weapon. Qunari didn't go to bed with someone because they had feelings for them. And he was still Qunari, still the man the Ben-Hassrath had trained. He couldn't let go of that and be her lover, not the way southerners did it, not and still understand who and what he was.

On the other hand, if he was still Qunari, that had a lot to do with her. Ren had not minced words in encouraging him to retain his identity. He would have expected her to leap at his severance from the Qun, thinking it would make him more like her ... but she had understood how much it was a part of him. He owed her a debt now—for letting the choice to save the Chargers be his, for standing behind his decision, for understanding and respecting who he was.

And she had never hidden from him her own desires. The Iron Bull was well aware—possibly too well aware—that her bed had been empty as long as he had known her. She had turned down the overtures of Flissa, of Blackwall, of Scout Harding, of others he didn't know about, he was sure, in order to avoid entangling herself with someone who might get hurt, or who might want more from her than she could give. They had never talked about it, but he knew her well enough to be able to follow her thought processes. To the best of his knowledge, he was the only person she had trusted herself to flirt with, the only person who really saw the passion and the loneliness hidden just below the surface. Was it fair to her to deny her what he knew she wanted because he was ... yes, because he was scared?

There was a burst of laughter from the card game, and he looked up to see Hawke's eyes on her. Hawke had a woman, the Iron Bull knew that, but there was still admiration in his face as he looked at Ren, and it sent the blood surging hotly through the Iron Bull's veins. He had never been jealous before, but he was now. He wanted to get up from the ground and go over there and kiss her, marking her in front of all of them as his.

It was the last straw, forcing him to realize that if he didn't make and own this decision now, sooner or later it would own him. The Iron Bull took a distracted sip of his ale, thinking about it. If he was going to do this, it had to be what she needed. The question was, what did she need?

He remembered what she had said earlier, that she wanted someone to tell her what to do, and when, and how, and give her a break from being in charge all the time. From the depths of his memory, he brought forth the image of a tamassran he had referred to as Kas, “the weapon”. He had only visited her a few times, toward the end of his time in Seheron when he had thought what weighed most heavily on him had been the pressures of command. Many of Kas's techniques would be too extreme to use with Ren, but there were ways he could adapt her approach.

Restraints, to begin with. What would he use, leather? No, something softer, something more in keeping with the relaxation and safety he wanted Ren to feel. Silk would be better.

With the decision made and the approach decided on, he got up off the ground, heading to his tent to work out the details.

Ren watched him go, wondering what all that silent, solitary thinking, so unlike her usual experience of the Iron Bull, had been about. If Hawke hadn't been in camp, she'd have seriously considered going into the Iron Bull's tent to see if he was all right. But she wasn't sure she trusted herself, so it was probably good that they had a visitor for the night.

“Oh, I'm sorry, is it my play?” she asked, realizing Hawke and Varric were both watching her. She put down a card, but her focus was no longer on the game ... if it had ever been.


	18. To Ride the Bull

Ren came up the stairs to her quarters, studying a dispatch from Leliana. She was frowning over it; the report was mostly to do with the Grey Warden fortress in Orlais that Stroud had suggested storming, and the incredibly difficult task that was going to be. Not that she was surprised—when had it ever been easy?

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face, wishing this was a task she could pass off to someone else. When she dropped her arm again, she froze, meeting the familiar grey eye of the giant Qunari who was somehow sitting on the edge of her bed.

Ren swallowed hard against the surge of mingled excitement and happiness and fear that swept through her. She had to put down the report and reach for the half wall at the top of the stairs to hold herself up, because her knees were suddenly weak beneath her.

“So, listen,” he said abruptly into the silence. “I've caught the hints. I get what you're saying. You want to ride the Bull.”

She couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face as the fear—that he wasn't there for the reason she wanted him there for—eased and the excitement took over. “It's about time. I really thought you were quicker on the uptake than that, Bull. I was beginning to think I was going to have to show up in your room naked to get the point across.” 

If she wasn't mistaken, that idea affected him rather more than he'd have liked her to see, because there was a long pause before he spoke again. “It's not that I didn't get it before ... but I'm not sure you know what you're asking. Not sure you're ready for it.”

“Really? You think you're that much better than ... anyone else I could have?”

He stood up. “Well ... yeah. But also—look, do you trust me?”

The answer came to her lips without hesitation. “Yes.”

The confident answer warmed the Iron Bull all through, tempting him to let go of his plans and just kiss her. But that wasn't what he was here for, he told himself firmly. "Good. Because if we do this, we do this my way. If you don't like it, you can say so, and I'll go.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Back in Crestwood, you said what you wanted was for someone to say 'this is what we're doing, and this is when, and this is how' and tell you what your job is. I'm going to do that for you.”

“And what is my job, then, in this scenario?” Ren asked. Her heart was pounding.

“Do you want me to tell you, or do you want me to show you?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

“What do you think?” If he didn't touch her soon, she was going to explode. Her body was throbbing already just thinking about his hands on her.

With a single swift motion he gathered her wrists in one hand and pressed her back against the stone wall. “Last chance to change your mind.” He was looking down at her, that massive body so close she could feel the heat coming from him.

“If you try to leave now, I'll kill you.”

The Iron Bull raised his eyebrow. “That's not a very nice way of asking, is it?”

Ren bit down on a smile, recognizing her cue. “Won't you please stay?”

“That,” he said deliberately, “is more like it.” Then, instead of kissing her as she had expected, his free hand cupped her through her pants. She jerked against his hand in surprise and pleasure. “Fuck,” he growled in her ear, his other hand tensing on her wrists. “You're so wet you've soaked through.”

She moaned. There were no words to describe how it felt to have his fingers running up and down her slit, his thumb grinding the seam of the pants into her most sensitive spot. It had been entirely too long, anyway, and she had dreamed of this particular touch countless nights. Her body pushed against his hand of its own volition.

“Already?” he asked, recognizing the erraticness of her movements as a sign of her approaching peak. “Are you one of those?”

“Not usually,” she gasped, her hips pressing against his hand. Maker, it felt good.

This was not at all the opener the Iron Bull had planned, but somehow he couldn't make himself stop. He was as lost in watching her pleasure as she was in feeling it, watching her mouth fall open, her eyes close, her face flush, her breasts heave as her breath came short, her hips jerk against his touch.

And then she cried out, her hips snapping sharply forward, her body tensing. He left his hand where it was, letting her ride it out, and then, as the tension ebbed from her and her eyes opened, he removed his hand, licking the taste of her from his fingers. “Been a long time, has it?” he asked softly, keeping his hold on her wrists.

“Too long,” Ren agreed breathlessly.

“Do you want more?”

She looked up at him, feeling an unexpected contentment. There was nowhere else she would rather be, no one else she would rather be with. “Very much yes.”

His answering smile was startlingly sweet, giving the lie to his pretense of this being more or less businesslike. It occurred to Ren that this approach must be a Qunari thing again. She wasn't sure she cared. He was here, which was what she had wanted.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

For answer, he let go of her wrists. “Take off your clothes and go stand by the bed.”

She shook her hands out a little to get the blood flowing again, and sat down on the couch at the top of the stairs to unlace her boots and pull them off. Then, facing him, she unbuttoned her jacket, shrugging it off her shoulders, and sent her thin blouse and breastband to the floor on top of it. The pants were more awkward, tight as they were, and then the smallclothes, soaked completely through. She tossed those to him, and he caught them out of the air.

“You'll run out if you make this a habit,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, but he made no move to throw them back. His eye was on her, practically burning in its intensity as he looked her over.

“I can always buy more. Or go without.” Ren winked at him. She wasn't ashamed of her own nakedness, and the way he was looking at her made her body ache for his touch all over again.

He came toward her, with slow, deliberate steps. Her underwear had disappeared into his pocket. From the other he took a long strip of black silk. “Stand still.”

Deftly he folded the silk over and then he put it over her eyes. Ren stilled, uncertain, and he paused. “Do I stop or keep going?”

She swallowed. The loss of her sight made his voice that much more resonant in her ear, and she wanted to know where this would go. “Keep going.”

The Iron Bull tied off the blindfold, and reached for another strip of silk, this one red. He gathered her hands in front of her and gently looped the silk around her wrists. Ren waited until he was done, then tested the strength. Satisfied that the bonds were more for show than anything else—she could have wriggled a wrist free if she wanted to—she nodded. Even without being able to see him, she knew he was waiting for her consent before continuing, and that certainty was arousing in and of itself. “Go on.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, drawing her across his lap, face down. With one hand, he reached for her breasts, fondling them. They were heavy and round, the skin beautifully soft, the nipples hardening under his fingers. He waited until she moaned with pleasure, then smacked her firmly on the ass.

She gasped, her back arching, and he rolled a nipple between his fingers and smacked her ass again. He nudged her legs apart, finding the wetness of her center, and stroked there, gently up and down, before spanking her again. This time, her cry was more of a keen, her head lifting.

“Have I ever mentioned,” he said in a rough whisper, “how fucking gorgeous your ass is?” He spanked her again. “Walking around behind you I want to put my hands all over it.” He suited the action to the words, squeezing the reddened flesh, massaging it, before spanking her a few more times.

Ren was squirming across his lap now, wanting his hands back on her breasts and between her legs and finding more pleasure in the spanking than she would have expected to.

He reached between her legs and found her clit, rubbing his thumb over it. Ren gasped sharply, her hips freezing in place. “Please,” she whispered, the word torn from her. She didn't know if she was allowed to talk, but she gathered she wasn't from the sharp, stinging slap to her behind that followed the word. She moaned instead, the heat from the slap somehow communicating itself all along her body.

They settled into a routine of stroking and rubbing followed by spanking, Ren's legs opening further and further as her hips pushed back against his hand, the stinging and burning of her buttocks melting into the heat from her center and all of it building inside her. It took longer than before, but her peak was sharper, too, the pleasure surging through her. She could feel him hard beneath her stomach, and she wondered if that would come next. As her body recovered from the intensity of her climax she felt him rearranging her on her back in the bed, her arms, still bound, above her head and her legs apart.

She'd rarely taken such a passive role in sex before, and it was strange for her, but exciting, too, knowing there was nothing expected of her but to lie there and be touched. The blindfold helped, because she had no idea where he was or what to expect next, so every little brush of skin against skin was heightened.

So when suddenly she felt his tongue between her legs she cried out in surprise. He was single-minded this time, attacking her relentlessly, driving her up and up and up until she exploded again, her body pulsing with the aftershocks.

He lay next to her for a long time after, his hands gently skimming her stomach or cupping her breast, the touches soothing her and slowly beginning to raise her excitement again. She wasn't sure she had it in her to go again; she was bonelessly relaxed into the mattress beneath her, almost floating, she was so drowsy, and the utter blackness behind the blindfold allowed her to let go of everything but his touch and his scent and the warmth of him next to her.

“This is a very big bed,” he rumbled into her ear, his voice the same mix of calming and stimulating as his touch.

“Picked it myself,” she said, her words slurred with sleepiness.

“Any particular reason?” He knew, of course; had known as soon as he'd seen the gigantic bed that dominated her quarters, and he'd been touched by the gesture. Lying here with her now, he was tempted to untie her and hold her close and drift off into sleep with her—but he wasn't going to do that, any more than he was going to take his own clothes off and slake the raging fire inside him. This was about her, and what she needed, and his own needs could be tended later.

He continued his caresses, light enough to bring her back to the brink slowly. Only when he was sure she was ready did he move his hand between her legs again, sliding a finger deep within her. Ren moaned, half in pleasure and half in protest. “Bull, I don't—I'm not sure I can again.” But her hips were moving against his fingers, albeit slowly, and he looked down at her, adding a second finger. 

“One more,” he whispered. He pressed gently, deep inside her, and she gasped, her hips rising off the bed to get closer to his touch.

“Yes.”

A third finger joined the first two inside her, the movements slow and gentle, and he bent his head, taking her nipple into his mouth, his tongue slowly circling it in time with the motion of his fingers.

Ren was no longer entirely clear if this was real or not; she was so sleepy, the pleasure washed over her in warm waves that carried her further into sleep at the same time as they moved her closer to climax.

At last, he felt her body ripple around his fingers as she sighed, completely sated. The Iron Bull tugged at the tie of the blindfold, taking it off. Her eyes blinked at him once and then again before closing entirely. Gently he untied her wrists, rubbing them lightly, and then he pulled the covers up over her. She sighed again, turning onto her side in his direction. Bending over the bed, he allowed himself a reward—he pressed his lips against hers, as full and soft as he had always imagined they would be, and stroked her red hair before leaving her there, deeply asleep.

As he closed the door of her room behind him, Leliana was coming around the platform. “Is the Inquisitor inside?” she asked. “I have some information that may be—“

“No.” He shook his head, moving past her, unable to keep a small, satisfied smile from his face. “Let her rest.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It's late, and she needs her sleep.”

“You don't say,” Leliana muttered. He could feel her eyes on him, speculating, as he went through the door into the main keep.

The Iron Bull went back to his room, his own need urgent now. Once that was taken care of, the memory of her scent and her taste and her cries of pleasure driving him quickly to release, he lay there in the midst of his tangled covers looking up at the ceiling. Would she want more? He hoped so, but there was always the chance that in the morning what he had to offer would look less like what she wanted. Either way, he had done what he had set out to do. If she didn't want more ... he would accept that. If he had to.


	19. Repeat Performance

Ren awakened the morning after her encounter with the Iron Bull as well-rested as she could remember being in a long time, completely sated and relaxed. It was only after lying there thinking over the events of the previous evening, the memory of his touch making her want more, that she realized he had never even undressed.

Mostly, she was confused by that, and then, as she thought about it, upset. If he had denied himself what she knew he had wanted, that wasn’t good. It didn’t bode well for a repeat performance—or an improvement. Or did it? If he hadn’t gone for his own pleasure, did that mean he was waiting for the next time, or that he was afraid to trust himself, or that … She couldn’t think of another reason, but she imagined there was one.

A week spent in the Exalted Graves didn’t help. The Iron Bull was his normal self, more or less, but scrupulously avoided being alone with her, so there was no chance for her to ask him any questions. Her own decision to bring Dorian and Sera along didn’t offer her much in the way of opportunities, either—they had little in common, so Ren ended up entertaining Dorian while Sera pestered the Iron Bull, an activity he proved to have a surprising tolerance for.

So it wasn’t until they were on the way back to Skyhold that she had the chance for any conversation with him that wasn’t immediately going to be overheard, and that was brief, a moment when Sera had gotten distracted by something and ridden her horse off the path, and Dorian had spurred his on ahead in irritation with one of the Iron Bull’s comments.

Glancing at the Iron Bull, Ren wondered if he had pissed off Dorian on purpose. But it didn’t matter—if she had a moment, she was going to make use of it.

“Iron Bull.”

“Boss?”

“If you think you’re going to get out of talking about this, you have a few things to learn about women.”

He cocked his eyebrow at her, his face unreadable. “Talking about what?” 

Ren frowned. “Don’t give me that crap. You know exactly what we have to talk about.” Sera was coming back now, so she added quickly, “When we get back to Skyhold, after dinner, my quarters.”

“Sure, boss. Whatever you say,” he said casually, but he didn’t feel casual at all. Following her all over southern Thedas had been filled with temptation before, but now that he had touched everything her armor concealed? He wanted more. Badly.

And she had asked him to come to her quarters. Surely that meant she wanted more, too. Which meant he had to decide how much farther he was going to let this go. Once was … experimental. Twice was more deliberate, and he would have to approach it that way. 

Accordingly, he presented himself in her quarters after dinner the first night back, finding her sitting on the couch with her knees drawn up to her chest, looking at the fire. Her boots were off, her feet bare, which sent an unmistakable signal to the Iron Bull—she was prepared to take her clothes off, and quickly, too, no messing with boot-laces. He placed himself across the room, leaning against her desk, well out of reach, because if they were going to do this, there were things they had to discuss first.

“There you are.” Ren smiled at him.

“As ordered.”

“Yes. I wanted to talk to you about the other night.”

“Sure. What’s on your mind?”

She was flushed in the firelight, but whether that was arousal, discomfort, or embarrassment was hard to tell. “That was … I’m still not sure how to react to the things we did. I mean … I enjoyed it, but … no one has ever done that to me before.”

There was a little smile on his face now. “Found a part of yourself you didn’t know was there before, didn’t you?” She gave him a surprised look, and he continued, “Ben-Hassrath training, remember? Grew up learning how to manipulate people. When it’s a hostile target, you give them what they want. When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need.”

Ren was mostly caught by the admission that he cared about her. Well, of course he did. They were colleagues and friends, and he had proven his respect for her several times over. Surely that’s what he meant. And she shouldn’t be surprised that he had seen in her something that wanted to just respond, that trusted him enough to be blind and helpless before him, knowing he wouldn’t hurt her. If the Ben-Hassrath only knew what potential they had thrown away, they never would have declared him Tal-Vashoth. Or had that been what had held him back from this all the time? But all of that was beside the point at hand, which was the way she couldn’t get his touch out of her mind and how much she wanted to feel that again. “So … was that a one-time-only thing, or is there a chance of a repeat performance?”

The Iron Bull’s heart thudded in his chest. Not that he was surprised, exactly—he had thought carefully about his approach, and had expected her to find fulfillment in it—but for her to come out and ask him … She was the Inquisitor, after all. He could name a dozen people she wouldn’t have to ask. At least. But she was here with him, because he was the one she wanted. “Yes.” The word came out with a swiftness and an eagerness he hoped she hadn’t noticed. “If that’s what you want,” he added, more calmly.

“If it is, then … how does this work?” She was looking at him over her drawn-up knees, her blue eyes wide. She seemed surprisingly young suddenly, and very vulnerable, a far cry from the toughness of the woman she showed the rest of the Inquisition.

“Outside this room,” he said, going over the words he had practiced in his head a hundred times in the past week, “nothing changes. You’re the Inquisitor; you’re the boss. All of this stays within these walls. It wouldn’t be good for the Inquisition for you to be known to be taking a Ben-Hassrath spy, even a former one, to bed.”

Ren nodded, the momentary vulnerability gone. “You’re probably right. Too bad this place doesn’t have a back entrance.”

“No need to worry about that,” the Iron Bull assured her. “I’ve had practice.”

“I’m sure you have.” But he was here now, at long last, she told herself, and none of the past mattered.

That grey eye was watching her, and she wondered if he had seen the flash of jealousy, but he went on without commenting on it. “You will always be safe; I will never hurt you without your permission. If you’re ever uncomfortable, if you ever want me to stop, you say ‘katoh’, and it’s over. No questions asked.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.” The idea made her smile, that behind that impassive face he’d been thinking about her in such detail. “Of course you have; I should have known you’d have a system.”

“Systems are comfortable. And my goal is for you to get very comfortable.”

His voice dropped and softened on the last two words. Ren could feel the heat rise in her in response, and she put her feet on the floor, ready to stand up and start disrobing, but she had questions to ask before she got too distracted. “So … how often can we do this?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Be careful what you offer; I may take you up on it.” She smiled; he raised his eyebrow in pointed reaction. “Every night, then.” Ren’s smile widened into a wicked grin before disappearing as she considered the realities. “In Skyhold, that is. And three weeks out of the month.”

“About that—I take a potion that renders me temporarily infertile, so you don’t have to worry about any consequences of that nature.” At her surprised look, he explained, “The tamassrans control who breeds and when. Anyone who works outside of Qunari territory takes the potions regularly.”

“I’m surprised they don’t do something more permanent, if they’re that concerned about it.”

“Any one of us could be called back at any time; Qunari don’t like to close off resources unnecessarily.”

Ren studied him. “I’d think you’d be a prime breeding candidate, with your looks and intelligence.”

The Iron Bull was used to women admiring him, but not to them saying so that openly—and not to having his intelligence be considered an important part of the package. He turned his head to look out the open balcony doors so as not to let her see how much her words had touched him. “Yeah, the Qunari really don’t see it that way. I’m a good—was a good Ben-Hassrath for reasons that made me a bad candidate for breeding.”

“Too rebellious?”

“Too much thinking.”

“Same thing, really.” Ren nodded. “And thank the Maker for that, or you might never have ended up here. Anyway,” she continued, “I take herbs every morning for the same purpose, so there’s no worry on my end, either.” A thought came to her, and she looked at him with curiosity. “Last time, you didn’t take me.”

“No.”

“Does this conversation mean that’s not going to be a habit?”

He stood up, his eye dark and smoky. “Let’s find out.”

“Yes.” Ren stood up, too. She could feel her heart pounding in anticipation.

“Take your clothes off.” As he watched her undo buttons and peel away layers, he said, “That’s the last time I should have to ask. Going forward, your clothes should be off before I come up.”

Ren shivered at the commanding tone in his voice. Also in the breeze from the open doors. “Can we close the doors, then? It’s chilly up here at night, with the cross-breeze.”

“Of course.” He went around the room, closing the doors, while Ren stood and watched him move, imagining what he looked like naked. He walked around behind her, gently moving her hair aside to expose her neck and shoulder. “How do you feel about marks?”

She’d never given it much thought before, but the idea of being marked by him was an exciting one. She nodded. “Nothing permanent; nothing that would show in public.”

“Understood.” His breath warmed her skin; and then his teeth closed sharply and without warning on the top of her shoulder and he bit down hard.

Ren cried out in pain, but pleasure, as well. The blood rushed to the spot, and it throbbed, and tomorrow there would be teeth marks there, and she would know and he would know they were there—but no one else would. That was exciting, too.

“I’m not going to gag you, because I like the sounds you make,” he said in her ear, his voice low.

“So I’m allowed to talk?”

“That depends on what you have to say.”

“What if that’s ‘please fuck me, Iron Bull’?” Ren asked. Was there a pause there as he drew in his breath? She liked the idea that she could affect him the way he did her, but he hadn’t given her much opportunity so far. She strongly suspected that was on purpose.

He chuckled. “You in a hurry?”

“No.”

“Good.” He pressed his knee between her thighs from behind, pushing her legs apart, and brought her arms up so her hands were locked together behind her neck. “Blindfold on or off?”

“Off. This time.” There had been a surprisingly erotic freedom in being in the dark, but this time— “I want to see you.”

The Iron Bull bit back a groan. He hadn’t wanted to rush, but if she kept saying things like that … She didn’t even have to touch him to make his cock twitch and harden; just the idea that she wanted him was enough, and that feeling was all kinds of dangerous.

So he touched her, his hands exploring her body and finding places that made her gasp and squirm and cry out—and kept her from talking. And when he could sense she was going weak at the knees, he lifted her and carried her to that enormous bed and spread her out across it.

Ren left her hands above her head where he had placed them, but lifted her head just enough to watch him undress, first the shoulder harness and then kicking off his well-worn boots, and then the wide belt and the pants and—oh. Not that she had expected any less, but he was well endowed, to be sure. Bigger than anyone she’d had before, and it had been a long time since she’d had anyone at all.

But he’d be used to that, she told herself as he stretched out next to her, his right hand gathering her wrists together while his left explored further. She cried out and arched against him as his fingers found her center, working her and stretching her and building the longing within her until she didn’t care if he was too big to fit, she wanted him there anyway.

“Bull,” she gasped. “Now.”

She could hear his breathing harsh and heavy as he moved over her, and need arced through her at the sound and the knowledge that no matter how he tried to play this off as being only for her, he wanted it, too.

He filled her slowly, inch by inch, until he couldn’t go any further. Ren couldn’t help wincing a little in discomfort as she stretched to allow him passage, and he held himself still. He told himself it was to let her get used to him, but in reality …

“Fuuuuck,” he breathed, the word part groan, part sigh, part wonder. He’d had a lot of women, but this felt—different. Better. More familiar, in a weird sort of way. He thought suddenly of what he had said to her on the battlements, that this was where he wanted to be. Yes.

As the discomfort passed, Ren drew her legs up for a better angle, and moaned at the feeling. “Please, Bull.”

For answer, his hands found hers above her head, but instead of pinning her down, as he’d intended, he found himself holding her hands, her fingers curving around his, the Anchor on her hand a faint buzz against his palm. And he moved inside her, slowly, remembering that it had been a long time and she would be extra sensitive as well as extra tight.

Ren moved with him, her eyes closing. She had wanted to watch him, to see his face as his climax got closer, but the pleasure was too great. She could feel the power in him, the tension in his arms and legs as he tried to hold himself back to avoid hurting her, and the thoughtfulness there was the last thing she needed to send her over the edge.

A few erratic thrusts later and he followed, a deep growl resonating in his chest as he came.

He moved off her, lying on his side next to her as they both tried to get their breathing under control. When she thought she could speak, Ren looked up at that narrow, dark face—so close to hers, just where she’d wanted it—and said, “Can we do it again?”

The Iron Bull laughed. He’d always suspected she would be fun to take to bed; so far she was exceeding his expectations. “I can,” he said, “but you can’t, not unless you want to be walking funny tomorrow.” He splayed his hand across her stomach, the skin warm and smooth underneath his fingers. “We’ll build up your endurance,” he promised. Among the dangerous things about her was this one, that he was willingly committing himself to an affair with no set termination date … and he looked forward to it. In most cases, he went for single encounters. Much less chance for entanglements and emotions and other mess. But in this case—it was really too late to avoid entanglements, and probably too late to avoid emotions, and other mess would have to take care of itself. Because having had her once, he was damned sure going to have her again. And again. And a few more times for good measure.

“I suppose you’re right.” Ren looked disappointed, though, and he liked that about her, too.

“Roll over,” he said, nudging her, “and get your knees up under you.” He arranged her legs apart a little and folded her arms so she could lean her head against them.

Ren didn’t ask what he had in mind; just lying here in this position was turning her on all over again. And then he reached between her legs and began to stroke her. Gently, at first, and then more firmly, his thumb moving in arousing circles, as the first smack landed on her ass. She gasped, bracing her head more firmly against her folded arms as she waited for the next one. It didn’t come alone; a rain of blows landed, first on one side and then on the other, the Iron Bull switching hands but maintaining both stimuli at once.

It was hard to say which she felt the more strongly, the pleasure or the pain. At some point, they began to feel the same. His thumb was drawing ever smaller circles now, his hand slapping her stinging flesh, and Ren was moaning, pressing against his fingers, so close.

And then she was there, crying out as her body thrust itself against him, grinding herself against his thumb to prolong the feelings. She collapsed onto her side, glad for the coolness of the sheets against her burning rear as the Iron Bull pulled the covers up over her. Gently he lifted her damp hair away from her face, and Ren sighed, snuggling deeper into the covers.

Without another word, he left, and she felt a twinge of disappointment … but she hadn’t expected him to stay, not really, and he had promised to come back. For now, it was enough.


	20. Morning After

Ren woke the next morning to movement in her room, and in the moment before opening her eyes thought maybe it was the Iron Bull. Then, before she could chase that fantasy any further, the person started singing in a soft, lilting alto.

“Flissa?” Lifting her head, Ren searched looked at her assistant, who was crossing the room to the table with a tray in her hands.

“Good morning, Inquisitor. Thought you might sleep the day away.”

“I'm just a little ... tired,” Ren said, pushing the covers down—and then hastily pulling them up again, having remembered too late that she was naked.

“Long night, eh?” Flissa's eyes were twinkling as she put the tray down.

“What? No! No, just the usual.”

“Uh-huh. Tell me another one. 'The usual' doesn't leave your clothes in a ball on the floor and you sleeping late without a stitch on. You want to tell me who finally got lucky?”

“Um ... me?” Ren covered her face with her hands. She should have known she couldn't keep these activities a secret from Flissa for long.

“Yes, I got that. I mean ... who convinced you to give up celibacy? And about time, too,” Flissa muttered. She started taking covers off of dishes. “Since you missed breakfast, I brought you some.”

“Thank you. Can you also bring me my clothes?”

Flissa giggled. “If you say so. Or I could not, until you tell me who it is.”

“Can't.”

“Ooh, a secret lover. Is he married?” Flissa frowned. “Is he a he?”

“Yes.” Ren dragged the clothes Flissa handed her under the covers and started wriggling into them. “And no, not married.”

Flissa busied herself making a pot of tea. “You wouldn't be ashamed of anyone you took to bed; not after taking this long to pick someone. So it's either that he's ashamed of you—unlikely—or that it's a political thing.”

“Maybe you should be the Inquisitor,” Ren grumbled. No question she was sore from both the sex and the spanking, but she thought she'd be able to walk normally after she'd been up a while. Absently, her hand rubbed the spot on her shoulder that was still marked with the Iron Bull's teeth and she smiled. “There's enough here for five people, Flissa. Sit down and help me with this.”

“So it's political,” Flissa continued, not waiting to be asked twice before she sat down at the table. She buttered a muffin, frowning thoughtfully. “Can't be the Commander, then, no one would mind that. One of the soldiers, too lowly for the Inquisitor? No, that doesn't seem right.”

“I hate this, do you know that?” Ren sighed, digging in to the fried potatoes.

Flissa smiled. “It's the Iron Bull, isn't it?”

Ren choked on her bite of potato. “What?” she asked, when she had breath to speak again.

“Come on. Of course it is. Who else would you have to hide? Also,” Flissa added, her eyes twinkling wickedly, “Krem told me.”

“Oh, he did, did he? And how did he know?”

“He keeps an eye on the Iron Bull, especially since the thing with the Qunari.”

“And ... he tells you what he knows, does he?” Ren asked with dawning suspicions of her own. “Does this mean I'm not the only one getting lucky?” Flissa's blush was her answer, and Ren laughed. “Well, it's about time.”

“Back at you, Inquisitor. You going to keep this up?”

Ren couldn’t hold back a grin. “Looks like it. What about you?”

“I really hope so,” Flissa said softly.

“So do I. Krem's a good guy.”

“Yes, he is.”

They finished their breakfast in a babble of girlish gossip of a type Ren had rarely experienced. She found it far more enjoyable than she would have expected, and was very glad that she had someone she trusted to talk to. Two if you counted Krem, but Ren didn't think she could talk to Krem about having sex with the Iron Bull. That would be entirely too intimate. She intended to pretend Krem didn't know.

Outside the keep, she found the Iron Bull sparring with Cassandra, a ring of spectators having formed around them. Cassandra was at a disadvantage against the Iron Bull given his height and the reach of his sword, but she hated to lose, and her sheer ferocity gave her something of an edge. It was always entertaining to watch.

Today, Ren had trouble keeping her mind on the details of combat, however, her eyes lingering on the Iron Bull's hands and on his heavily muscled torso, which was gleaming with sweat. She hadn't been allowed to touch him yet, and she very much wished she could. It was hard to say when that would be allowed, though, and she would have to be patient.

It was strange for her to be so passive, but she didn't disagree with his basic premise—it was a relief to have someone else be in charge of at least one part of her life, to be able to trust that in at least one place things were going to work out according to a timeline she didn't have to stress about. And the whole thing was new enough that just having him in her bedroom was an intoxication of its own, after having tried not to wish for just that for so long.

Ren felt a completely ridiculous twinge of disappointment that the Iron Bull didn't seem to find her as distracting as she found him. He hadn't even glanced in her direction. Not that she wanted him to lose, necessarily, but he could have made it look more difficult to keep his focus, she thought, with an inward smile at her own unreasonableness. After all, if he found her distracting in a sparring match, it wouldn't be a good idea for them to go fight a dragon together, would it?

She stayed for the rest of the match, which the Iron Bull won, much to Cassandra's disgruntlement.

“Next time, Qunari,” the Seeker snapped.

“Anytime you're ready.” The Iron Bull grinned cheekily at her. “Next time, maybe you and Cullen could try together.”

Cassandra glared at him. “You are impossible.”

He laughed. Only then did he turn his head in Ren's direction. She watched his expression for any sign of any private thoughts, but he looked just the same as usual. He moved to the edge of the ring where she stood next to Vivienne. “Ma'am,” he said respectfully to the mage, who gave him one of her lovely smiles. Then, to Ren, “Hey, boss. Anything going on, or you just here to watch me kick Cassandra's ass?”

She smiled at him, but it was forced. She had never liked the way he danced to Vivienne's tune. The mage was fine, if a bit full of herself, but it was clear the Iron Bull was terrified of her. And Vivienne enjoyed that a bit too much for Ren's liking. “Just watching to see if Cassandra would win for a change.”

“That'll be the day.” He laughed again, clapping her on the shoulder. Was it Ren's imagination, or did his thumb linger on the teeth marks hidden beneath her jacket?

She decided to assume that it had, and to take that as the private message she had been looking for, and further, to remind herself that this was part of the excitement, the secrecy. What was she acting like a jealous schoolgirl for, anyway? She gave herself a mental slap on her still-sore rear end, and left the sparring ring for Ser Morris the quartermaster's office, to go over some outstanding requisitions.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull managed to keep from watching her go, but just barely. He had seen the uncertainty in her eyes; it was why he had come over to her, why he had put his hand on her shoulder just where he had. And he had been glad to see the resolve in her face in response, but the whole thing was a reminder of how torn he was over this whole situation. He, the Iron Bull, wanted her, but as a Qunari that wasn't the way things worked. If he was with her because he cared about her, then he wasn't a Qunari; if he was with her because he was trying to provide for the needs of his leader, that was permissible, but it was less than she deserved.

By the same token, he wanted everyone to know that she was his, but possessiveness was also not the Qunari way, and it would be bad for her if people found out she was sleeping with him. Even his supporters within the Inquisition might wonder if his being named Tal-Vashoth had been engineered so he could get closer to her ... and while he and Ren might both know that he could have been that close a long time ago, the rest of the Inquisition, and the world in general, did not. And there was excitement to be had in being her secret lover, in letting the arousal build and build until they could come together in her room at night, but at this point when everything was new what would be exciting once things got established was still just ... nerve-wracking.

Bah. He was worrying over nothing, he told himself. This was new to both of them; they'd figure it out. The Iron Bull stowed his practice gear away and headed up to the ramparts. He liked to spend some time up there every day to keep an eye on Skyhold and watch for any changes in people's regular routines. Kept him sharp and made him feel like he was on top of things.

He often ran into Blackwall up there, and they walked a way together, as they were today. Typically, they talked about fighting, since it was the only thing they really had in common.

“What's the largest number of enemies you've taken out with one blow, Blackwall?”

“You're obsessed with these numbers. What does it matter?”

“Fine. I'll go first—seven.”

Blackwall frowned. “If you count a severed pinkie, then ... six.”

For the sake of argument, the Iron Bull gave him the severed pinkie. “I've been thinking of ways to get to eight.”

“Have you?” Blackwall asked absently, looking down over the edge of the battlement into the courtyard.

The Iron Bull followed his gaze, seeing Ren below getting ready for a training session with Cole. They both fought with two daggers, so they were well-matched, although Cole's ability to partially disappear into the Fade often gave him the edge. Creeped the Iron Bull out, too.

“You think she's looking tired recently?” Blackwall asked.

“Who, the Inquisitor?”

“Yes. Look at her; she's not moving right.”

They both watched her for a moment. The Iron Bull was hard put to keep the smile off his face. She wasn't moving quite right—and he knew just why, too. But he wasn't about to tell that to Blackwall. He was more interested in the fact that Blackwall had watched her closely enough to be able to tell the difference, because the alteration in her normal level of agility was fairly slight unless you knew her well.

“Nice girl, the Inquisitor,” the Iron Bull said casually.

“She works too hard.”

“That she does.”

“Stubborn, though.” Blackwall watched her a little longer, a wistful expression on his face. The Iron Bull looked away. It wasn't that he disliked Blackwall, and if he wasn't here, he'd have wished Blackwall good luck with her ... but he was here. And he wasn't sure he liked this reminder that other attention hovered near her, waiting for her to glance that way. On the other hand, he couldn't help but think of how it would feel to watch her with longing and know she would never look at him. He felt a sudden keen pity for Blackwall. “I suppose she needs to be,” Blackwall said suddenly. “Can't blame her.”

He cleared his throat, and with a curt nod for the Iron Bull, strode away.

The Iron Bull was left there on the battlements, looking down at Ren in the training circle. He frowned, noting that she was practicing throwing knives at a dummy. Where had Cole gone?

Then, from above him he heard the familiar voice. “The Iron Bull—you always remember me. Why?”

He looked up, finding the boy sitting on the roof of the guardhouse. “Don’t do that!”

“Make you remember?”

“Appear out of nowhere. It’s creepy.”

“Oh.” And then Cole was standing next to him. Clearly the Iron Bull was going to have to work on the kid’s understanding of the word ‘creepy’. “Why do you remember me?”

“I’m a trained observer. I remember almost everything I see.”

“Could I make you forget if I wanted to?”

“Yeah, you probably could. But you haven’t so far, so you must not want to.”

“And you don’t want me to.” The boy’s strange eyes were on him, making the Iron Bull feel uncomfortably like a trapped insect.

“No.”

“But—you have pain. I could make it go away.”

“No!”

Cole looked distressed. “Why not? It makes people feel better.”

“Not me. My pain is mine; it’s not yours to magic away. I’ve spent a lot of time learning to deal with it; I’d be someone else without it, and I don’t want to have to start all over from scratch.” He was doing enough of that already where Ren was concerned, he thought.

The kid’s face perked up as the name crossed the Iron Bull’s mind, almost as if he had heard the Iron Bull’s thoughts. “You try to make the Inquisitor’s pain better.”

“Okay, that’s true. But not by erasing it—“

“No. You do it by giving her more pain.”

“Yeah … not exactly. It’s … different.” And he was damned if he was going to explain it to this innocent soul in front of him.

“Should I try that?”

The Iron Bull choked, coughing. When he could get his breath back he said, “No,” emphatically.

“Oh.” Cole looked down at the Inquisitor. “It’s working, though. She has less pain when she thinks of you.”

“That’s … nice to know.”

“Does it take some of your pain away?”

The Iron Bull glared at the kid. “Yeah. I suppose it does at that.”

“Good.” Cole smiled, moving off down the battlements, leaving the Iron Bull to look down at Ren with an odd lightness in his chest.


	21. Together

The Iron Bull didn't come to Ren that night; she assumed because he knew she was still sore and not quite ready for more activity. She waited naked in bed anyway, just in case, and fell asleep imagining his touch.

The following night she heard his heavy tread on her stairs. Just the sound of it made her breath come faster. Ren stood waiting, naked, in the middle of the room.

The Iron Bull smiled at the sight of her. He'd been thinking about this ever since the last time he'd been in this room; every time he had seen her around the keep he'd wanted nothing more than to put his hands on her again. Being back here again, seeing her so obviously expecting him ... she was a fucking treasure, this woman. “Obedience,” he said, “gets you rewards.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Her voice, so low and throaty, almost broke his resolve; he almost crossed to her and kissed her. But he had promised himself he wouldn't. Everything else was permissible, but kissing was too intimate. Either he would lose himself in the savagery with which he wanted to plunder her mouth, or the contact would tell her more about his feelings than he was ready to admit to himself, much less to her. Instead he held himself still, just looking at her.

Ren trembled under that look, wondering what 'rewards' meant. And then he did move, coming toward her deliberately, pulling that red silk scarf out of his pocket. He took both her hands, looping the silk over and around her wrists, more securely than before.

“Last time was awfully fast, don't you think?” he asked.

Yes, she supposed it had been. “If you say so.”

He chuckled. “I like a quick learner.” With a hand at the small of her back, he guided her toward the wall, where he had previously noticed a hook just right for his purposes. Taking her hands, he slipped the loop he'd left in the silk scarf over the hook.

Ren tugged at it, feeling the hook give slightly. If she yanked at it hard enough, it would come out of the wall. Satisfied, she left her hands where they were.

“Good choice.” The Iron Bull slid his hands down her sides and over her hips, reaching back to cup her buttocks. “Still sore?”

Ren shook her head. “No.”

“Maybe we'll have to do something about that later. For now ...” He took out the black scarf and tied it over her eyes again.

Lost in the dark, unable to move, Ren leaned her head back against the wall and sighed. She heard a rustling sound as he knelt before her, and then his warm, wet tongue circled her navel, licking a trail upward over her ribcage to the underside of her breasts. Just as she was anticipating his mouth on her nipples, the mouth disappeared, to be replaced by fingers stroking the insides of her thighs, gently, teasingly, closer and closer to the core of her, but never quite getting there.

She lost track of how long she stood there, his mouth and hands exploring and teasing, always in unexpected places, never quite getting where she wanted. Resolutely she kept her mouth shut when she wanted to plead for more. Every once in a while he'd take her hands down and rub them, nibbling and sucking her fingers, only to put them back up again.

His hand was on her shoulder now, his thumb tracing the edge of the bite mark again. “This is almost gone,” he said, his voice hoarse in his own ears. If she only knew how hot it was to look at her, walking around all confident and Inquisitorial, knowing his mark lay under her clothes. Where would he mark this time? The Iron Bull got to his knees again, grateful for her soft carpeting, and lifted one of her legs over his shoulder. Ren gasped, and he grinned, knowing what she was expecting. Instead of putting his mouth where she wanted it, he turned to the softness of her inner thigh, licking the skin, and then he sucked on it, hard, until a small purple mark had formed. He rubbed his thumb over the mark. “That's better.”

Ren moaned. “Please, Bull.”

“Please what?”

“Please ... anything.”

He slid a finger inside her, easily done at this angle, and she cried out in pleasure. Slowly he stretched her as Ren panted and sighed, her hips rolling against him. When she was ready, he withdrew his fingers and stood up, his hands on her ass lifting her, and he drove himself into her.

Ren gasped. The discomfort was less than it had been the other night, but still there, and she clenched her teeth against it. The Iron Bull held himself still for a moment until he saw her jaw relax, and then he moved, steadily, firmly, leaning his forehead against the wall next to her, the tips of his horns scraping against the wall in time with his thrusts. He wanted to slam her into the wall, to fuck her so hard the very stones of Skyhold would shake—but there would be time for that later.

Maker, he was big, Ren thought dizzily. All around her was nothing but the scent of his skin, salt and smoke and leather, and the heat of him against her and inside her, and the sound of the little growls he couldn't quite hold back. Those might have been the most arousing thing of all, knowing how much he wanted this.

“Come for me, Morvoren,” he whispered raggedly into her ear, his usually precise diction slurred just a little.

And she did, erupting against him in a shower of sparks that shook her all the way down to her toes, feeling him shudder against her in response, his thrusts rougher as he lost control for a moment.

Letting his breath out slowly to calm himself, the Iron Bull put her legs down, and then took her bound hands off the hook. He carried her to her bed before removing the scarves from her eyes and wrists.

He didn't miss the fact that she shivered in the breeze. He'd have to do something about that, he decided. For now, he closed the doors before returning to her.

Ren drew her legs up to her chest, looking up at him as he towered over the bed. “Can I ask you something?” she said suddenly.

“Sure.” He sat down facing her, hitching one knee up onto the bed.

“When you told me this was what I needed, what did you mean?”

“I started thinking about it after what you said in Crestwood, that you wanted someone else to tell you what your job was for once. But it's more than that, too. You're the Inquisitor. You didn't ask for the job—it was forced on you by Leliana, by Cassandra, by Cullen. By Corypheus. Fuck, I practically dared you to take it. And you have. You've taken the responsibility for the Inquisition and for all of our issues. You've got thousands of lives riding on your shoulders, and you bear that weight all day. You need a place where you can feel safe, knowing that someone else is in charge for a bit.”

Ren nodded. “I get that.” 

With her head resting on her bent knees the way it was, she looked very small ... and very vulnerable. For the first time, the Iron Bull considered her as a young woman who would someday be looking for a real relationship, someone who could give her a more regular life, southern-style. Was he here fulfilling a need, or was he encouraging her to develop feelings that would hurt her later?

“Do you?” he asked suddenly.

“Do I what?”

“Feel safe.”

“With you? Yes.” There was no hesitation in her. “But you knew that, didn't you?”

Whatever disturbing thought had clouded his features a moment ago passed, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Maybe. Nice to hear it, though.”

Ren frowned thoughtfully. “So this is a conscious decision for you, doing things this way? It's not your standard operating procedure.”

“Yeah.”

“Does that mean you could do something else if I wanted you to?”

The Iron Bull raised his eyebrow. “You mean, like now I'm the naive young farm boy and you're the ruthless Inquisitor seducing the truth out of me? No.” The last word had a firm finality.

Ren chuckled. “That wasn't quite the scenario I'd have picked.”

Well, now he'd be lying in bed awake tonight wondering what scenario she'd have gone with. Still ... “This is who we are. It'd be disrespectful to what you need to treat you any other way.”

“What if my needs change?”

“Then we reevaluate. Or maybe you find someone else to fulfill those new needs.” He didn't even like to think about that, but it was important to him that she not feel trapped. “Look, if at any point this doesn't work for you, I understand. No hard feelings.”

She moved, then, up on her knees, her face very close to his and her blue eyes snapping. “Will you stop that?”

“What?”

“I'm a grown woman, and this isn't my first tourney. If I didn't like it this way, we wouldn't do it. I remember the word to say if I want it to stop; and I haven't said it yet. You've given me plenty of chances.” She bit back the rest of what she wanted to say—that he had made it more than clear that he could stop at any time without getting his feelings hurt and she really didn't want to hear that again. Because she was as happy under this arrangement as she'd been in a long time, and if he didn't feel the same she'd rather not know about it.

“Okay, boss,” he said softly. “You got it.”

“Thank you.” Ren tilted her head, studying his scarred face. “So if this is what I need, what about what you need?”

“Me? I'm good.” He chuckled, surprised that she would think he needed anything else. Surprised, and touched. “I'm better than good,” he assured her. “You don't need to trouble yourself on that front.”

“Would you tell me if you weren't?”

If he said yes, she would know he was lying, so he didn't. He just shook his head.

“I didn't think so. You're really too damned stubborn for your own good, you know that?”

“Lifetime of training.”

“Yeah.” She shifted again, stretching out across the bed with her arm propped on her elbow, and the Iron Bull mimicked the movement, facing her. “So all those serving girls, and the Orlesian nobles—is this what you did to them?”

He laughed outright at that, a full-throated genuine laugh that warmed her all through and made her smile in return. “Hardly. Nobles want the savage Qunari—or what they think of as savage. Rip their clothes, push them around a little, then take them roughly ... all as carefully as possible. Serving girls and the like spend most of their day being pushed around and feeling unimportant. They need someone who makes them feel special, lets them cut loose without repercussions. So I let 'em bounce around on top, tell them their tits look nice—everybody wins.”

She had asked, Ren reminded herself. If she didn't want to know, she shouldn't have asked.

Then he caught her gaze with his. There was something unusually earnest in that grey eye. “I mean ... I used to. As long as we're doing this, you've got my complete attention.”

Ren blinked, surprised. “I do? I ... wasn't expecting that.”

Did she really think he could have gone to another woman after having her? But he wasn't about to say that to her. Instead, he said, “Would you be able to trust me to have your best interests in mind if you thought I was watching the time so I could get to someone else? Part of what makes this what you need is to know that when I'm here, it's all about you.”

“And if my attention wandered elsewhere?”

He actually had to take a moment to force himself to think about that rationally, and he was fairly proud of how calm he sounded. “Then that would mean this wasn't so much what you needed.”

Deep within her, Ren felt a glow of happiness. He wasn't going to be with anyone else, and she wasn't going to be with anyone else—they were together, then. And if he was willing to commit to that, then it was more than just sex, and more than just her needs. The stoicism was a Qunari thing, she knew that much; surely the lack of any overt emotion was, too. “What would this be like if I were a Qunari?”

“It wouldn't.”

“That's right; Qunari don't have sex with their friends.”

“Exactly.”

“So no parents, no siblings, no children, no lovers ... is there anything that separates one person from the mass of other Qunari?” Ren couldn't imagine living like that.

“Not really. I mean, we have friends, and obviously you get along better with some people than with others.” He frowned, thinking about it. “There is this old tradition I read about if you find someone you're particularly close to—you find a dragon's tooth, break it in half, and you each wear a piece. It's supposed to symbolize that no matter how far apart life takes you, you're always together.”

“That sounds nice. But I take it, if you only read about it, it's not practiced much?”

He raised his eyebrow. “Dragons are pretty scarce these days. If we were southerners, there'd be a whole business for people making fake dragon's teeth, but we're not. Real, or nothing.” He reached for her hip, pushing her gently onto her back. “No more questions for tonight.”

Ren smiled. “Whatever you say.”

“And don't you forget it.”


	22. Cared For

As he climbed the stairs to the main keep, the Iron Bull had to admit that for once in his life, he was actually nervous. Not over the night to come so much—he and Ren were a couple weeks into their affair now and most of the early butterflies had settled—but because of the package he held in his hands. He had never given her a gift before; in fact, he couldn't remember ever giving anyone a gift before. And while this one was fairly practical in nature, he worried over her reaction. Would she like it? Would she take it as more than it was?

There had been a time not that long ago when life had been predictable, with nothing much to worry about except getting the Chargers enough work to keep them busy and supplied with ale. Not that the Iron Bull missed that time, particularly—life in the Inquisition was a lot more interesting—but he wasn't used to thinking of himself as someone who did so much second-guessing. Not just of himself, but of her, as well.

Still. Far better to worry during the day and have her to himself all night than the alternative.

The keep was nearly deserted, as usual for this hour, except for Varric, who still sat bent over his writing. The Iron Bull groaned inwardly; usually he made sure he knew where Varric was before he started for Ren's quarters, but tonight he had been distracted by the package. There was nothing for it now—he was far enough into the keep that Varric must have seen him. No going back.

“Hey, Tiny.”

“You still at it, Varric? Having trouble doing justice to my massive pecs in your deathless prose?”

“Sure. Let's go with that. What about you? What brings you in here at this hour?”

The Iron Bull eyed the dwarf suspiciously. It sounded like a perfectly innocent question, but that was the way Varric worked—he drew you in slowly and then slammed the jaws of the trap shut. “Just looking to see if the cooks left anything out after dinner.”

“They don't feed you enough in the tavern?” Varric looked him up and down, and grinned. “No, I suppose they don't.”

“It takes a lot of fuel to build this much muscle.” He hesitated near Varric's table, not wanting to leave, but not wanting to keep going, either. Too late he thought that he should have said he was going to the Undercroft, where no doubt Harritt and Dagna were burning the midnight oil at their crafting tables, as they so often did. This affair was playing havoc with his ability to lie; which was ironic, really, given how many lies it required.

Varric put his pen down, leaning back in his chair. “Don't you have an upstairs to be, Tiny?”

“Crap.”

The dwarf laughed. “Come on, you think you could hide that from me, of all people?” He nodded at the package in the Iron Bull's hands. “I could've helped you with that, too, although it was a lot more fun watching you run around Skyhold trying to be sneaky. You need to brush up on your spycraft.”

Damn that dwarf, anyway, the Iron Bull thought. He was actually beginning to redden under Varric's amused scrutiny. “What can I say,” he growled, “I've been a little distracted.”

“And I don't think there's a man in Skyhold who could blame you.” Varric nodded toward her door. “Go on, don't keep her waiting.”

The Iron Bull grunted, heading on through the hall to the familiar door. He resisted the urge to take the stairs two at a time. Reaching the top, he found Ren standing over her desk, reading a dispatch.

She looked up at him coolly. “You're late. I was about to put my clothes back on.”

“Sorry. I got ... delayed.” He held out the package. “This is for you.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “For me?”

“You see anyone else in here?”

“It's just ... did I miss some kind of ... anniversary, or something? I mean, do we do that kind of thing?”

“Oh. No, this is just—look, just take it, will you? You'll see when you open it.”

“Okay.” Ren took the package from him, undoing the knots with her small, dexterous fingers. Opening the brown paper wrapping, she took out a long robe made from exquisitely light and soft blue wool.

“I know you get cold, and I thought ... this was something you could wear,” he said, striving to keep his tone casual. He had ordered it through Bonny Sims, Skyhold's fine goods merchant, dictating to her exactly what he wanted in material and color and style, on pins and needles lest someone should see what he was buying and start asking questions about who it was for.

“It's beautiful, Bull. I tried not to complain, but it does get chilly up here.”

“I noticed.” He tilted her chin up to look in her eyes. “If this is working right, you shouldn't have to complain—I should be able to tell what you need. I'm just sorry it took this long.” He took the robe out of her hands and helped her into it. He was pleased to see he'd gotten her measurements right; it fit perfectly, the soft fabric clung to her curves exactly the way he'd imagined ... and the color matched her eyes just the way he'd thought it would and set off her hair remarkably well. She was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

The Iron Bull remembered thinking she was good-looking when he'd first met her, but somehow either she had grown more lovely in the time they'd known each other, or he was looking at her differently now. Another of the effects of this mind and body and heart thing, and one he couldn't say he minded—except when it scared the shit out of him.

“Thank you, Bull.” She put her hands on his shoulders and stood up on tiptoes, her lips brushing his cheek.

The Iron Bull couldn't help shivering in response. This was why he tried to keep her from touching him—his reactions when she did were so immediate, and so intense, that they made him feel too vulnerable for comfort. A lifetime of learning control and along comes this little red-headed woman and he might as well be standing in front of his first tamassran all over again.  
He swallowed as she took her hands off him and stepped back. There was a flash of satisfaction in her eyes as they met his and slid away that told him she had felt that shiver and understood it, and if anything, that frightened him more.

“It looks good on you,” he said gruffly, gesturing to the robe. “Too bad, too.”

“Why?”

For answer, he raised an eyebrow and gestured at the robe. Ren chuckled, undoing the knot and letting the fabric slide off her shoulders to pool at her feet.

Well, that was an unexpected side effect; watching her take it off was possibly the most erotic thing they had done yet. His cock hardened in response, and before he could think to remember what he had planned for tonight he had her up against the wall, her wrists caught in his left hand, while he devoured her neck and her collarbones and her breasts and every inch of delectable skin he could reach.   
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren leaned her head back against the wall, moaning in pleasure. They had tried out quite a few positions in the last couple weeks, but this one remained her favorite. Something about being suspended here, surrounded by the scent and feel of his body, gave her such a feeling of security, of being cared for and protected. It wasn't a feeling she'd have thought to look for; certainly never before in her life had she considered being protected to be a good thing, and while her practical needs had been looked to more than adequately growing up, she wasn't sure she could point to anyone who had particularly cared for her, Ren, as she was. She had experienced far more of that in the Inquisition than she ever had before, especially here with the Iron Bull.

Following the dictates of his whims, which were getting more adventurous as she proved able to handle more, was a challenge that Ren had accepted willingly. For her, part of the excitement was taking everything he could dream up, proving that she could keep up with him, that there was nothing he could ask from her that she couldn't do. Of course, he made it easy; he always seemed to know when he was approaching her limits and back off without her needing to say so. True to his word, in this room she always felt she had his complete attention, and that in itself was an intoxicating feeling.

She had held the word katoh in her thoughts once or twice, tasting it as something she could say, if she needed to, but she had never yet entertained serious thoughts of using it.

She wondered what he would do if she did. If right here, pinned against the wall with him buried deep inside her, moving at a pace that said he was within shouting distance of finishing, she said katoh to him, would he stop? For a brief moment, she considered it. But only for a moment.

Deep down, she knew she didn't have to test him. She was utterly certain that if she said katoh he would stop, even now, no matter how much he didn't want to. Instead, she tightened the grip of her legs on his hips and that of her internal muscles on his cock, and he shuddered to a climax, his breathing harsh in her ear.

The Iron Bull let go of her hands and let her legs down, but he didn't move quite yet, standing over her with his forehead pressed against the wall just above her head, letting his heartrate settle and his breathing slow. At last, he said, “You all right?”

“Uh-huh.” Ren nodded.

“You didn't finish. Want me to do something about that?”

She thought about it, but overall she felt fairly satisfied. “No.”

“All right.” He straightened, looking down at her. With his fingertips, he brushed the hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “That was just the warm-up, anyway.”

Ren laughed. “I thought as much.”

The Iron Bull patted her on the shoulder, on the fading teeth-marks from their last session, and crossed the room, picking up the blue robe from where it had fallen. Ren followed him, letting him drape it around her. As he tied the belt at her waist, the Iron Bull looked at her seriously. “I'm glad you decided not to test me.”

She shouldn't be surprised any more at what he noticed, Ren told herself. But she was. “You could tell?”

“Yeah. I could tell. What stopped you?”

“I didn't need to. I trust you.”

“Good. If you used that word lightly, it would lose its meaning.” There was something in his tone that suggested to Ren that he was talking about more than just the word.

“I know,” she assured him. “I'm not going to. If I say it, you'll know I mean it.”

“I believe you.”

She looked past him to her desk, remembering the dispatch she had been reading when he came up. “There's something I need to talk to you about.”

“What's that?”

“I know we said no work up here, but ... Hawke finally reported in about what's going on at Adamant.”

“The Grey Warden fortress? About time we got some details.”

Ren sighed. “Right? Stroud was so cagey about it in Crestwood. And no wonder.”

The Iron Bull frowned at her. “What's going on?”

She led him over to the couch, sitting down with her legs curled under her. He tugged his pants back on and sat next to her, his arm across the back of the couch. Just a little closer and she could have tucked her head against his shoulder, but she wasn’t sure where they stood on the subject of cuddling … and this wasn’t exactly a cuddly topic. “You remember in Redcliffe, when the Magister sent Dorian and me forward into the future? And I told you there was an army of demons that Corypheus had, an army so powerful the future you told me I was lucky to have died without having to face them?”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“We know where that demon army comes from now—the Grey Wardens. Somehow Corypheus is using the Wardens in some kind of blood sacrifice to bring the demons into this world and bind them here.”

“Fuck.”

Ren nodded. “That was pretty much my reaction.”

“Why are the Wardens letting themselves be used like that?”

“Apparently, according to Hawke, they're all afraid they're going to die. I asked Blackwall about it, but he wasn't forthcoming with further details.”

“He wouldn't be.”

“No.” She sighed. “Anyway, I wanted to ... tell you this, to say—I was going to have you come to Adamant with me, but ... I can take Blackwall and Cassandra instead if you don't—“

He was staring at her, his eye darkening. “I thought we were past this shit.”

“We are!” Ren protested. “It's just that I know demons aren't your thing.”

“You think I'd let you walk into someplace I was afraid to go myself?”

“Someday you may have to.”

“Not today. If you're going to Adamant, I'm going with you.”

“It's ... it's not just you, though.”

“Then what?”

“In Redcliffe, Bull, I saw the demons kill you. I don't want to see that happen again.” She couldn't help shivering, the memory still vivid in her mind. It was strange to have memories of something that had never happened, strange and disturbing.

“You won't.”

“You say that, but—“ She looked away. “I suppose I'm just being ... I don't know, superstitious? But I can't help thinking something terrible is going to happen out there, and ... I don't want it to happen to you.”

“Hey.” He waited until she turned her head to look at him again. “If you think something bad's going to happen, I'm going to be there. We're good at killing things, you and I; we'll get through these Grey Wardens and their demons together. All right? But no leaving me behind. Besides.”

“What?”

“Cullen's going to want to take the whole army, trebuchets, you name it, if we’re going up against a fortress. That means the Chargers. And if you're going, and the Chargers are going, I'm damned if I'm going to be able to sit back here and wait. I'll go out of my fucking mind.”

“I suppose,” Ren said reluctantly. She couldn't help seeing him as the demons had thrown him through the door, though, and she closed her eyes against the image. He had become so important to her—without him to talk to, without his support at her side in combat and out, without him in her bed and against her wall ...

“Nothing's going to happen,” he said firmly. He got up, reaching for her hand. “Come on.” 

“What?”

“I'm going to tie you up and make you stop thinking for a while.” He grinned. “A really long while.”


	23. Demon Town

Ren found herself in the middle of a wasteland of rocks and green sky, with the flitting shapes of demons crossing the open spaces in the distance. She closed her eyes, reaching in her memory past the blinding flash of green to the attack on Adamant Fortress, to the Grey Wardens drawing demons from the Fade in a binding ritual, to the Venatori Magister Erimond calling down Corypheus's dragon on them all, to Warden Commander Clarel sacrificing herself at the last moment to save them all from the dragon, to the dragon falling through the stones of the battlement and all of them falling through the air. She could remember reaching for the ground with her left hand and the Anchor activating itself.

She looked around, not sure she believed—or wanted to believe—the evidence of her senses. Was she ... in the Fade? And where were the others? The Grey Warden Stroud, Hawke, Varric, Dorian ... the Iron Bull? Were they here with her, or were they broken bodies at the bottom of a pile of rubble?

Trying to orient herself, she looked around, finding Stroud first and then Hawke. Then, from somewhere on the other side of a rock, she heard a familiar deep voice chanting “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Ren smiled out of her deep relief. He was here, and he was alive. She could banish the image of him being thrown through the door by the demon army in Redcliffe once again. “Over here, Bull,” she called.

He came around the corner, letting out a long breath as he saw her. “There you are, boss. We owe this to you?”

“Saved your life, Bull. You should give some thought to a proper thank you.”

“Oh, I will.” He looked around at the rest of their surroundings. Ren could see the tension in his shoulders, evidence of the rigid control he was holding himself in. “Where the fuck are we?”

“My dear Iron Bull, welcome to the Fade.” Dorian appeared to be his normal breezy self.

Varric, at his side, seemed a bit the worse for wear. “Hawke, I don't remember enjoying the last time we were in the Fade.”

“No. Me, neither. Looked a lot different than this, too,” Hawke said. “Glad to see you here, though—I hate to go into the Fade without my trusty dwarf.”

Varric grumbled, but with a faint smile on his face.

The Iron Bull shook his head. “Boss, I know I said I'd fight anything you gave me, but no one said anything about being dragged through the ass end of demon town.”

“If I recall correctly,” she said tartly, “I said I had a bad feeling about this one. But oh, no, you had to come along. 'Where you go, I go, boss.' 'Nothing's going to happen.' Ring a bell?”

“Next time, tell me to shut the fuck up and do what I'm told.”

Dorian chuckled. “I can just see his reaction to that.”

Ren could, too. She smiled at the mental image. “That'll be the day.” She looked around, frowning. “Now, how do we get out of here?”

“Over there.” Stroud had been silent so far, but now he pointed at something far in the distance; the familiar green glow of a rift in the Fade.

“That is farther than I would have hoped,” Hawke muttered.

“You said a mouthful,” Varric said.

“Well, no sense standing here.” Ren began to move toward the rift, stopping when she saw a figure, a human who looked familiar somehow, in her path. Moving closer, she said with disbelief, “Divine Justinia?”

“Can't be,” Warden Stroud said. “Divine Justinia is dead.”

The figure of the Divine merely smiled calmly.

“Why are you here?” Ren asked.

“The demon who lurks ahead, waiting for you, is called Nightmare. He is what every child sees in the dark, what brings you awake in the night with your heart pounding. He is everything you have dreaded made flesh.”

“Wonderful,” Varric muttered.

The Iron Bull was notably silent—too silent, Ren thought. But there was no time to worry about him now. “That must be the demon Erimond was trying to bring through the rift, to bind to Warden Clarel.”

The Divine nodded, slowly. “He has taken a piece of you, Inquisitor.”

“How do you know that title?” she asked. “The Divine wouldn't have known that title.”

“She's not the Divine,” Hawke said.

Ignoring them both, the Divine—or whatever had taken her form—continued. “You will have to regain that piece of you, your memory, before you can leave the Fade.”

“Games, now,” Hawke muttered behind her. “What is it with these demons and their games?”

Ren ignored him, focusing on the image of the Divine. “You mean, my memory of what happened at the Conclave?”

The Divine nodded.

“Fantastic. How do I do that?” Ren asked.

“The demons carry your memory. As you kill them, pieces will be restored.”

The Divine disappeared.

“People do that often in the Fade?” Ren asked.

“They seem to.” Hawke sighed. “Let's go get your memory back, then.”

As they walked on, a voice seemed to speak in Ren's mind, large and booming. It called her a fool, and promised peace and safety if she didn't seek after her lost memories, threatening that the pain hidden in them would be too great to bear.

Ren found that hard to believe. It seemed more likely that the demon was messing with her head. Looking around, it appeared she wasn't the only one being tormented—everyone was frowning or wincing at something she could neither hear nor see.

Swallowing hard, the Iron Bull looked around at them all. “Everyone, if I get possessed, feint on my blind side, then go low. Cullen says I leave myself open.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” Varric said, chuckling weakly.

Ren nudged the Iron Bull with her elbow. “Don't worry. If a demon takes you over, I'll cut you down before you can do anything embarrassing.”

“That's comforting.” He clenched his teeth, not looking particularly comforted. “I really, really don't like it here.”

“I'm going to get us back, Bull.”

“You're the one who landed us in here in the first place.” His voice had a harder edge to it than she was used to hearing from him, and she snapped back at him out of alarm.

“The alternative was smashing our heads open like melons.” 

“Maybe that would have been better.”

“What did it say to you?” she asked him.

He swallowed hard, pushing the words forward at last through his clenched teeth with obvious effort. “That it was going to take me for itself.”

“I'm not going to let that happen, Bull.”

He glanced down at her, his eye a steely unreadable mirror. “Right.”

Well, this was going nowhere fast. Ren was almost relieved when they were surrounded by demons again; at least that was something she could fight. And, as the vision of the Divine had said they would, her memories began to come back as the demons died. Ren fell to the ground, hands over her head. There was a blinding pain, and then it was gone and the hole in her mind was filled.

“Hey, Rusty, you all right?” Varric asked, bending over her with concern.

The others were standing around her, staring down at her. Ren stood up, putting a reassuring hand on Varric’s shoulder. “Yes, I'm fine. The memories ... I remember what happened at the Conclave now. I walked in on Corypheus performing a ritual with the Divine's body, while the Grey Wardens held her in stasis. He held the orb, the one he had in Haven, and it rolled across the floor and I picked it up. It hurt like you wouldn't believe.”

“That's how you got the Anchor?” Hawke asked.

“Yes.” She nodded, satisfied at last. “My own actions; no Maker required.”

To her surprise, Dorian looked almost disappointed. “And the woman who pushed you out of the Fade?”

“The Divine. These ... spider things were coming after us, and they caught her. She told me to keep running, to get out. She must have realized the Anchor would be needed on the other side of the Fade,” Ren said softly. “She gave up her life for it.”

“You said it was the Grey Wardens holding the Divine?” Hawke asked.

Ren said, “We already knew they were under Corypheus's control.” 

“That's no excuse! Not when the Grey Wardens started all of this!”

“Stand down,” Stroud said, his voice soft but dangerous. “My people would not have done any of this had they not been frightened out of their minds—by the very thing that stalks us here, no doubt.”

Hawke bristled, clearly ready to take the argument further, but Ren stepped between them. “This sounds like an excellent debate—and fist-fight, if you must—to have over a couple of ales, once we get out of here. For now, pull yourselves together!”

Both men muttered half-hearted apologies, stepping back.

“Good.” Ren stalked off toward the rift.

Varric and Hawke joined her. “What'd it say to you, Varric?” Hawke asked.

“Oh, the usual. How Bartrand and I started this, how it's all my fault, how you're in danger again because of me.” The dwarf forced a grin. “As if the opposite hasn't been true just as often. As for the rest ...” He snorted. “Those aren't my fears. They're the truth. How about you, Hawke?”

“It told me I'm not important, that I've never done anything to make a difference ... and that Isabela's going to die.” Hawke grinned. “It's clearly never met Isabela.”

“What about you, Rusty?” Varric asked.

“Mostly, it just didn't want me to get my memories back. It doesn't seem be very good at finding what I’m afraid of.”

“What’s that?” Hawke asked.

Ren shrugged. “Same as most people, I suppose—dying, dismemberment, failing the Inquisition by not taking down Corypheus.” There was a small place inside her that remembered the Iron Bull being thrown through the door by the demon army, his arms flopping, his horns broken. The image made her stomach clench—but now didn't seem the time for that particular journey of self-discovery. She glanced back over her shoulder; he was walking with Dorian and Stroud, not looking very happy about it.

Hawke was saying, “I suppose that was my fear once, too. Now, it's mostly this—that I'm going to spend my life fighting other people's battles and never get to just lay down my sword and swing in a hammock in the sun.”

“Rivaini's really got you, doesn't she?” Varric grinned. “Me, I'm good as long as I never turn into Bartrand.”

“Not a chance, my friend.”

Further conversation was interrupted by more demons. Ren threw herself into the combat, slicing and slashing and stabbing with all her might. It didn't take them long at all, really, until all the demons were down.

Breathing heavily—harder than he should have been, given the size of the combat—the Iron Bull said, “These assholes aren't so bad. The demon can't be too big.”

Morosely, Stroud said, “No doubt these are just its emissaries.”

“Look, allow me this one minute to hope, all right?” the Iron Bull snapped. He strode off in the wrong direction.

“You should go after him, Rusty,” Varric said.

“Me?” She realized what he was getting at, and smiled. “No secrets in Skyhold, huh?”

The dwarf chuckled. “Not from me.”

She hurried after the Qunari. “Bull? Bull, wait for me.”

He glared at her. “Wait for you? This is all your fault. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be Tal-Vashoth; I'd still have the Qun, and this fucking demon couldn't touch me.”

Ren recoiled from the venom in his voice. “Stop. That's all wrong, Bull. That's not the way it happened at all. You do still have the Qun, remember? You don't have to be Tal-Vashoth just because some jackass told you you did. Come on, where's that Qunari stubbornness when we need it? Fight this thing, damn it! Don't let it into your head.”

He turned to her, his face dark with anger and fear. He put his big hands on her upper arms, shaking her. His fingers were digging into her skin, and these marks she was not going to find exciting later. Wrenching her arm free, she feinted at the left side of his jaw, just under the eyepatch, and when he shifted that direction, kneed him in the groin. Not hard; just enough to snap him out of it. 

The Iron Bull groaned, doubling over, and Ren stepped back.

After a moment, he grunted, “Thanks, boss. I ... think I needed that.”

“Cullen was right. You do leave yourself open,” she said.

“That was not what I meant.”

Ren grinned. “You all right now?”

He straightened up, taking a breath. “Yeah. Fucking terrifies me.”

“What?”

“Tal-Vashoth. Losing my mind, everything that makes me ... me.” He grunted a laugh. “Shouldn't, right? I turned myself in to the re-educators, let them go to work on me, but now ... I could just lose myself at any time, no warning. Perfect food for demons.”

“It hasn't happened so far.”

“Doesn't mean it won't.” He frowned. “How are you so calm, anyway? Why isn't this Nightmare asshole messing with your head?”

“It picked the wrong things to worry about. Besides.” She reached for his hand. He didn’t pull his away, but he didn’t respond to her touch, either, which was unusual for him. For a moment, Ren debated whether to say what she was thinking—would she leave herself too vulnerable to him if she admitted how important he had become to her? But it was the truth, and they had always told each other the truth. “You're here,” she said. “If I'm with you, how bad can things get?”

His eye softened as he looked at her, and he gave her one of those sweet, genuine smiles she so prized as his hand closed around hers. “Hey, I'm sorry about—“ He gestured at her arms. “That.”

“That? I've hurt myself worse than that fooling around in bed.” She grinned at him. “Hope to again someday, too.”

“You and me both, boss,” he said, his thumb rubbing across the back of her hand.

In lieu of what she wanted to do, which was throw herself into his arms and just hold on, Ren tugged on his hand. “Come on. We can't let Varric and Hawke have all the fun.”

“All right, but if this thing is bigger than me, I'm letting you kill it.”

“Sure. That sounds fair.”

They caught up to the others, walking with Dorian, who seemed serene and untouched by it all. The Iron Bull said as much. Dorian chuckled. “My dear Bull, I'm a mage. And a Tevinter. While I've never been physically in the Fade before, I have entered it in spirit many times. I've been well-trained in ignoring the tricks.” He made a face. “Besides, this thing thinks my greatest fear is being mistaken for my father. Please. I am far better looking.”

As they neared the rift, Ren could hear the voice of the demon inside her head again. “I am the demon army you fear,” it intoned. “They are all bound through me!”

Ren's eyes widened. If Corypheus's entire demon army was bound through Nightmare, then killing Nightmare destroyed the army. Destroying the army removed a prop from under Corypheus, and ended forever any fear of that army taking over the world ... or of it killing the Iron Bull. Perhaps that shouldn't be her focus, but it was. Ever since the flash forward in Redcliffe, Ren had been haunted by the image of the demons throwing the limp, broken body of the Qunari through the door in front of her. Possibly because he was one of her people, possibly because she knew that being killed by an army of demons would piss him off royally, possibly because his death had been her fault in that future any way you looked at it. Underneath, there was more, but there was no time for more right now. For the moment, it was enough to know that killing Nightmare injured Corypheus materially and got them all out of the sodding Fade.

And then they saw it. 

Nightmare was big. Enormous. He seemed to stretch across the Fade. And he wasn't human.

“A spider?” Varric said. “Why is it always spiders?”

“You see a spider?” The Iron Bull shuddered, unable to take his eye off the thing. “A spider would be a pleasure compared to what I see.”

Ren saw a demon, formless and intimidating. “It's definitely bigger than you are,” she said to the Iron Bull. “You want me to kill it for you?”

He pulled himself together with a visible effort. “Nah, I'll give you a hand. Can't have you going back to Skyhold with all the bragging rights.”

“You two need the rest of us for this?” Varric asked.

“Come on, Varric, you'd never be able to live with yourself if we sat this one out.” Hawke hefted his sword.

“If you say so,” Varric muttered, clearly not convinced. But it was also clear he'd follow Hawke anywhere he led, so he unslung Bianca and got her ready.

It was a long battle, and Ren was exhausted and dripping in sweat and blood and some type of fluid from the little spiderlings that skittered around the demon long before it was done. At last the demon was a pool of inky black blood on the floor ... but other demons, no doubt drawn to their fear and the exhilaration of combat, were beginning to close in. Ren shoved Dorian through the rift and Varric hurried after him. The Iron Bull stopped halfway through, looking back at her, waiting for her.

“GO! I swear, I am right behind you!” she shouted.

“Not a fucking chance,” he said grimly, his sword poised. “After you, boss.”

There would be no moving him, so she didn't bother to try. “Come on,” Ren shouted to Hawke, grabbing his arm. The demons were closing in.

“But—someone should—there won't be time for all of us,” he said.

“No, there won't.” Stroud was very calm. “But there will for the two of you. Go and save the world. Hawke. Inquisitor.” He nodded to both of them, and ran toward the oncoming demons. Ren yanked at Hawke's arm and they both tumbled out of the Fade and into the real world, with the Iron Bull behind them.

She turned, looking at the rift, but Stroud didn’t come, so she raised the Anchor and let it close the rift for good.


	24. Fear

The Inquisition cheered them as the rift closed; but all too soon it was time to look to their losses, to care for the wounded, to clean up the mess left behind by the Grey Wardens.

A representative of the remaining Wardens came to Ren in the midst of the clean-up, looking for guidance. On being told that Warden Stroud had been lost in the Fade, the young Warden looked alarmed. Apparently Stroud and Clarel had been the only Wardens left among them of a high enough rank to take charge.

Ren looked at him, and then at the rest of the Wardens who hung back in a knot, keeping themselves away from the mutters of the Inquisition. These were the childhood heroes of almost everyone in Thedas, those charged with standing between the darkspawn and the destruction of everything the world held dear. How could she let them slink off into ignominy this way? That would be to let Corypheus win, to cut off their nose to spite their face by turning away such a resource.

That Blackwall, back at Skyhold, would want his people looked after, also occurred to her, and she nodded at the young Warden. “Come with us back to Skyhold. We will find a way for the remaining Grey Wardens to aid the Inquisition and recover their honor.”

Hawke was at her side at the time, and he frowned at her. “That won't be a popular decision.”

“A wise man once told me that leadership meant making the hard decisions and living with the consequences,” she said. “That's the beauty of making decisions on the battlefield—the consequences are mine, and the rest of the leadership can shake their heads and say 'oh, that Inquisitor, so impetuous,' and everyone wins.”

He laughed. “That sounds like the way Varric thinks.”

“He's been an asset,” Ren said. “I don't know what I'd do without him. You're not going to try to drag him back to Kirkwall, are you?”

“No. I don't live in Kirkwall anymore, anyway. I live on the open ocean, amongst the pirate armada, which is even more fun than it sounds.”

“I know you've hung up your sword, but ... the Inquisition could use you.”

His eyebrows flew up. “Me? Oh, no. I did my bit. I'm retired. Besides, Isabela would kill me.”

“Bring her, too. I'm sure she'd fit right in.”

“That she would, but there's too much dry land. If you ever need a ship, though, ours are at your service.”

Ren sighed. “Maker, I miss the ocean. You have no idea how good it sounds, just to set sail and not think for a while. You think ...” She glanced across the battlefield at the Iron Bull, who was helping rebuild a trebuchet. “Never mind.”

“You made some progress on what we talked about before, then,” Hawke said, following her gaze.

She smiled. “Yes. You catch on fast.”

“When a man that terrified would rather stay in the Fade than leave it without you, it sends a pretty clear message.” 

Ren hadn't thought of it in those terms; put that way, the Iron Bull's stubbornness actually sounded ... romantic.

Hawke clapped her on the shoulder. “He's a lucky man.”

“Thanks.”

“Look, I'm going to go say good-bye to Varric. When you get ready to take down Corypheus, tell him to send for me. I want to see that bastard die—for good this time.”

“Will do. Safe travels, Hawke.” She watched him disappear into the crowd of soldiers. Surely if Hawke had made it through his ordeals to happiness with his pirate, there was hope for—  
Ren caught herself. Was that what she wanted? To get through this war and run off and be pirates with the Iron Bull? Or mercenaries, as the case went. It sounded good. But did it sound good because she was tired and wanted to run away from home, the way she had before, or did it sound good because her feelings for the Iron Bull went deeper than she'd thought and she wanted to spend her life with him?

She shook her head impatiently. They were nowhere near the end of the war or the defeat of Corypheus; any thoughts on what she might want to do afterward were premature at best. For now, there was a battlefield to clean up and an army to take home.

The Iron Bull had been watching her talk with Hawke out of the corner of his eye. He had to admit, he'd be glad when the Champion of Kirkwall had left the Inquisition. The tall, good-looking, extremely smooth-talking Champion of Kirkwall. Taken, yes, but from everything the Iron Bull had heard about Captain Isabela, her standards of 'taken' were fairly flexible. And Hawke was the kind of man every woman would find attractive. Was Ren one of them? Would she prefer a human?

He hated these questions that buzzed in his head, the totally uncharacteristic self-doubt. But he had hardly shown his best side to her in the Fade; he had been fearful and angry and easy pickings for the demon; he had put his hands on her in anger, which he had never done before. The Iron Bull couldn't remember when he had last turned on someone he considered a friend with that kind of anger, and that it should be her of all people, and that she should then turn around and pull him out of that dark scared place when he didn't deserve it ... He was ashamed of himself. He owed her his life, in more ways than one, and he was too ashamed to face her, much less to properly express the depth of his gratitude.

Ren could tell there was something going on there; he avoided her, and when he thought she wasn't looking he watched her with an odd expression on his face that she couldn't quite read. She knew he had to be feeling badly about letting the demon have a foothold in his brain, and probably his thoughts were filled with some mixture of scared and pissed off. But there was nothing she could do to help with that until she got him back to Skyhold.

They got in late the first night back, which was a relief to the Iron Bull, as it gave him a good excuse not to go up to her room. Not that he didn't want to; he couldn't think of anything he wanted more than to be alone with her, just to sit and talk with her and try to wrap his head around what had happened in the Fade. But if he went up there and he found her waiting for him, naked, they wouldn't be doing any talking—and he didn't deserve that, anyway, not after the way he had treated her.

Remembering an old Qunari exercise for getting over fear, the next day he tracked down Cassandra as the person most likely to understand and follow through.

She looked at the broad stick in her hand, and then at him, skeptically. “You want me to hit you. With this. As hard as I can.”

“Yeah.”

“And this is helpful?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Very well.” She hauled off and hit him before he could get set, and he coughed at the pain, and the relief of it.

“Again.”

“How many times?”

“Until ... as long as you can.”

Cassandra raised her eyebrows, but she didn't ask any more questions. She slugged him with the stick, over and over again, and he grunted and endured it. Surprisingly, she wasn't hitting as hard as she could, though—she seemed to be taking it easy on him, so he said the thing most likely to fire her up.

“Come on! This is why the Qun doesn't like women fighting! ... I should've asked Cullen.”

As expected, she wound up and, putting all her considerable strength behind it, whapped him with the stick hard enough to lay him out flat on his back.

“Good one,” he said when he could breathe again. And then he heard a familiar set of footsteps and lost his breath all over again. Of all people to show up ... but then, of course she would. She'd be worried about him. She was a good leader, he told himself.

Cassandra handed Ren the stick. “Perhaps you can take over.”

“What am I taking over?” Ren asked as the Iron Bull got up off the ground.

“It's a Qunari training exercise to master your fear. It's been a while since I needed it, but that Nightmare demon was ... big.”

“No kidding. Can you explain why I'm supposed to hit you with this stick? Surely you can't be afraid of me,” Ren said.

She had no idea. In the very short list of things that scared the crap out of him, she was at the top, right next to demons. Not that he had any intention of telling her that. The Iron Bull shook his head. “I could probably explain it, if I tried, but I'd have to use a lot of Qunari words.”

“Clearly, I'm going to have to learn Qunlat,” Ren muttered.

He was touched by that idea, and a little afraid of what such an intention might mean, and a little not afraid, which scared him, too. “Just hit me with the stick, all right? I need to get over this demon crap.”

“All right, but only if you answer my questions.”

“That's not the way this is supposed to work.”

“Yeah, but out here, I'm the boss, and if you want me to hit you with the stick, then you'd better have something to say.” She held the stick up, waiting pointedly for his agreement.

“You're damned stubborn, did you know that?”

“I ought to be. I learned from the best.” The look in her eyes said clearly who she meant, and the Iron Bull smiled at her in spite of himself.

“Fine. What do you want to know?”

She hit him then, smacking him hard with the stick. “Why are you so afraid of demons?”

“Who in their right mind isn't afraid of demons?” he roared.

“Yeah, but this is something more. Tell me about it.” She hit him again.

The Iron Bull grunted. She wasn't as strong as Cassandra, but she was hitting a lot harder. Taking it seriously, or taking out her frustrations, or punishing him for what he’d done in the Fade? Whichever way, it was working. His brain was clearing, some of the fear receding so he could think better. “For the Qunari, demons are the scariest thing there is. Worse than dragons, or mages ...” He shivered, just thinking about it. “Possession, losing your mind ... That's the worst thing that can happen to you.”

“I get that.” Ren studied him, glad to hear him talking and not shouting; it meant he was coming back from the edge of the fear. “It's the same for the rest of us ... but I suppose when your very culture is based on mind over matter, it must be worse.”

“Yeah.” He hadn't seen the next blow coming, and he doubled over. “Oh, that's it. Damn demons!” When he could breathe again, he said, “What's in my mind is me; without it ... well, it's what makes becoming Tal-Vashoth so scary. For most of us, it's like losing everything that we are.”

“But you know now it doesn't have to be that way.”

“Still ... that demon was in my head in there, talking inside my mind, and I—listened.”

“You were unprepared.” She smacked him with the stick again. “Next time you'll know better.”

“There'd better not fucking be a next time.”

“My sentiments exactly.” Brandishing the stick, she said, “Are we good now?”

He looked down at her, feeling some of the shame recede. “Yeah.” He sighed. “You know, living so long out here, most Qunari would say I've already lost my mind anyway.” Certainly they would if they knew about his growing feelings for her, which were not at all of the Qun. “Maybe I have.”

“Would that be so bad?”

The Iron Bull smiled. “Depends on who you ask, I suppose.”

“I'm asking you.”

There was more behind the question, and suddenly he thought he knew at least part of the answer. “Maybe not. Hey, boss.”

“Yes?”

“The Chargers are throwing a party in the tavern tonight.”

“I know; Krem told me about it.” She smiled. “He's bringing Flissa.”

“Good. I like her.”

“Redhead. I know.”

“Feisty one, too.” He let his eye rest on her shining hair. “You going?”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I guess I am.”

“Good. I'll see you there.”

He left the training ground, leaving Ren to watch him with a puzzled look on her face.

Behind her she heard shoes scuffing the ground, and she turned around, nearly jumping out of her skin when she saw Cole standing there. She had, yet again, nearly forgotten that the strange young man existed. 

He was staring off after the Iron Bull, his eyes seeming to see inside the Qunari’s head. “Strength means nothing to him without control.”

“Yes.” Ren thought of the bruises purpling on her upper arms. 

“He thinks it’s the same for you.”

Ren frowned, trying to follow the cryptic comment. Had she lost control, or was it supposed to mean that the Iron Bull thought she would think less of him for having done so?

Cole was frowning, as well. “He insists on remembering; he won’t let me help. But I want to make him forget, make it stop hurting.”

“It’s all right, Cole,” Ren said. “I’ll help him this time.” She just wished she knew how.


	25. The Herald's Rest

The Herald's Rest was packed as Ren made her way inside. She smiled at the people she passed, most of them soldiers and various Skyhold workers. They made room for her, bowing and generally trying to get out of her way, and she regretted that. So much of her still felt like one of them, awed in her own way by the power of the Inquisition's leadership.

Farther in, she found a few of the Chargers, who lifted their mugs to her. They were singing loud enough to drown out Meryden, the resident bard, and that was always a good thing. Ren liked Meryden well enough, and the bard had a pretty voice, but all her songs were so depressing. The only one that had any kind of decent upbeat tempo was the one about Sera, and that one was usually interrupted by Sera throwing things at Meryden until she stopped singing it.

“Inquisitor!” Cullen was standing next to her, holding out a tankard.

“Cullen, we're in the midst of a party. Don't you think you could call me Ren for once?”

“I ... suppose I could.”

They stood there looking awkwardly at each other for a few moments. They had had many long conversations in his office about the history of war and the Templars and the best ways to beat Dorian at chess, but somehow standing in the middle of a party had Cullen off his conversational game. Ren supposed she wasn't overly surprised; he wasn't a man who spent a lot of time at parties.

Or possibly he, like so many other people she'd run into since Adamant, didn't know what to say to someone who had been physically in the Fade, twice, and lived. Ren sighed. “Nice party,” she said.

“Yes, isn't it?” Cullen looked tired, she thought, as though he'd been sleeping even less well than usual. She should check in with Cassandra on how he was doing without the lyrium. “The Chargers have been very good for morale, and they fight extremely well.”

“It was a good day for the Inquisition when they came on board,” Ren agreed.

“And the Iron Bull, also,” Cullen continued. “I admit, when he first joined I had concerns about ... his circumstances, but he has certainly been an asset.” He frowned. “Given how much time the two of you spend together in the field, it's fortunate that you seem to get on well together.”

“Yes. The alternative would be ... unpleasant,” Ren said dryly. 'Get on well together', he'd said—apparently the Iron Bull was far better at sneaking into her room than she'd expected he would be, if Cullen didn't know about them. Come to think of it, no one in the Inquisition, other than Krem and Varric, seemed to have any idea there was more to their friendship. She wasn't sure if that said good things about their discretion, or terrible things about the Inquisition's spy networks.

Cullen said, “I am glad you have people you can count on at your back. And you know I am one of those—if there is ever anything you need, I hope you won't hesitate to ask.”

“Of course.” She took a step closer, speaking almost into his ear. “The same goes for you, Cullen, if you need to talk about—things.”

“Thank you.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I ... may need to take you up on that.”

“Any time.” Ren watched him go with some concern, hoping he would be able to get some sleep. A gloved hand came out of the crowd and appeared on his arm, and she saw the familiar purple hood behind it. Leliana would take care of him, then, and hopefully work him through whatever was bothering him tonight.

Across the room, the Iron Bull was singing loudly with his Chargers. And Dorian, which surprised him a bit. Dorian had never been one for loud carousing before. Being pulled physically into the Fade had clearly shaken the mage up more than he wanted to admit. Varric, too, although the dwarf was handling it more in his usual way—holing up and writing things down.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Sera and Cole were sitting on the railings looking down at the party. The Iron Bull would have given some serious coin to know what they were talking about. At the bar, he could see Scout Harding talking to the Ambassador, both of them leaning toward each other in a fairly unmistakable flirting pose. So Harding had transferred her affections elsewhere. He couldn't blame her; Josephine was a fine-looking woman. If you couldn't have the Inquisitor—and Harding couldn't—you couldn't go wrong with the Ambassador.

Without entirely meaning to, he turned his head and scanned the crowd, looking for the familiar head of rich dark red hair, finding her at a corner table with Blackwall, laughing about something. Blackwall had been very pleased at the choice to bring the Grey Wardens into the Inquisition, but he had made no effort at all to spend any time with the Wardens once they'd been brought in. Cassandra had taken them on as her personal project, instead, leaving Blackwall plenty of time to lounge around in the tavern, apparently.

As if she could sense his gaze, Ren looked up and met the Iron Bull's eye, and he felt the heat in her eyes as if she had touched him. After all the times they had been together, he would have thought the effect of her nearness would have lessened, but it had increased instead. And he marveled at that as much as he worried about it and what it meant for him, and how it changed who he was.

“Chief!” Krem bumped against his side, the lip of his wine bottle digging into the Iron Bull's ribs. “You're not drinking enough, Chief. This is a party, after all. What is it you Qunari say?”

“Anaan,” the Iron Bull said.

“Yeah, anaan. That's the one. Anaan, Chief.”

“Had a bit too much tonight, Cremisius?”

“You said it.” Krem grinned, raising his arm and beckoning across the room. “Inquisitor! Honorary Charger! Horns up!”

She said something to Blackwall and got to her feet, coming across the room toward them.

“Horns up, Krem de la Creme,” she said, grinning at him. Flissa linked her arm with Ren's, the two of them looking very alike standing there.

Krem handed her a mug. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Your Worship.”

“What are we drinking to?”

“Demon armies, and how we kill 'em!”

Ren raised her glass to that. When Krem and Flissa drank, she lifted her cup, too, but she only swallowed a little of the liquid. Looking as though she was keeping up glass for glass with heavier drinkers when she was actually keeping her intake moderate was a skill she had learned early on with Dooley's Raiders.

“You're not drinking tonight?” she asked the Iron Bull.

He shook his head. “No,” he said, in a voice that was clearly meant to be heard, “still processing what happened in the Fade. Best to do that with a clear head.” He frowned, looking around him. “I might head up to bed, actually.”

There was a chorus of protest at that—the Iron Bull was usually the life of the party, and rarely left early—but he stuck to it, and eventually Krem waved the rest of the Chargers back.

For her part, Ren was confused. Was he actually going to bed? Was she supposed to follow him? They had never been together in his room before. Or was that code for meeting in her quarters? Or were they simply not going to be together tonight, again? She hoped it wasn't the last one—even without anything physical, she really wanted just to be alone with him, somewhere quiet and private.

“Hey, boss,” he said, “we were going to talk about the next expedition.” 

She frowned at the sudden change in topic, but noticed that he was moving them slowly toward a less crowded portion of the room, near the stairs, so she went with it. “There are a lot of places that require our attention; I'll have to look at the map in the War Room and give it some thought.”

“Tomorrow's soon enough for that.” The Iron Bull lowered his voice. “For tonight ... will you come upstairs in a few minutes?” Fuck, he thought. His heart was pounding and his breath coming short; he couldn't remember being this nervous the first time he'd dropped his pants for a tamassran.

She bit down on a smile, nodding seriously as though they were still talking about work. “Sure. I'll see you up there.”

“Good-night, boss,” he said more loudly, and turned to climb the stairs. He knew what he wanted to say, and to offer her. Now if he could only keep his courage up long enough to follow through.


	26. Touch

After the Iron Bull had gone up to bed, Ren made the rounds some more at the party, but slowly edged her way through the crowd toward the front door as she did so. Eventually she faked a yawn, told Ser Morris the quartermaster that she was still exhausted from the Fade, and slipped out into the night. She took a few moments in the courtyard to enjoy the quiet night air and look up at the stars, which seemed so bright and clear here in Skyhold.

Then she slipped into the shadows and quietly climbed the stairs to the battlements, making her way through the ruined room at the top of the tavern, where she hastily unlaced her boots and took them off, and then down into the upper floors of the tavern. It was silent up here, most of the occupants still downstairs partying, and there was no one to see her pad down the hallway and slip into the Iron Bull's room.

She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it. “Hey.”

“Hey.” The Iron Bull looked as uncomfortable as she'd ever seen him, standing there with his hands in front of him as though he didn't know what to do with them.

“This is a change of pace.” Ren looked around the room. “It's cleaner than the tent was.”

He grinned suddenly. “What do you think I've been doing the last ten minutes? Just ... don't look under the bed.”

Ren chuckled. “Deal.” She watched him for a moment, waiting for him to speak, but it was clear he wasn't going to. “So ... what did you have in mind?”

“I ...” He groaned. “Oh, fuck. This really should be easier. Look, in the Fade ... that was ... I was easy pickings for that fucking demon, and ...”

“No, you weren't. You were caught off guard—“ Ren said, but he cut her off, his eye narrowing.

“Don't talk down to me,” he snapped. “I was listening to voices in my head, and I turned on the—the person I was supposed to be protecting. What I did to you, shaking you like that, that was over the line.”

“Fine, have it that way if you want. But you came out of it, and I would never have let that demon take you. That's my part of this deal—you watch my back, and I watch your brain.” She smiled at him.

“Still ...” The Iron Bull took a breath, calming himself down. Getting pissed off at her was not the way this was supposed to go, even if it was easier than what he had intended to do. “Still,” he said again, more firmly, “you saved my life. In more ways than one. And ... I owe you.”

Ren's smile stretched into a grin, and a suggestive one at that. “I like the sound of that. What did you have in mind?”

This time, he was able to return the smile, sure now that he could go through with it. “Actually, I was more interested in what you have in mind. Out here, you're the boss, remember?”

Her eyebrows flew up. “You mean it?”

He nodded. “Whatever you want.”

“Anything?”

Something in the enthusiasm in her tone—while it was gratifying—made him nervous. “I ... think so?” He cleared his throat. “If you need a few minutes to think about it—“

“No. I know what I want.” She pushed herself off the door, grabbing the nearest chair and shoving it under the doorknob, to make doubly sure they couldn’t be interrupted. “And I intend to take my time about it.”

The Iron Bull was already breathing hard just watching her—there was something different about her, more feline, more in control, more ... sexy. Damn, she was beautiful.

Ren stopped in front of him, her body language altering so that she suddenly was that vulnerable girl he glimpsed occasionally, looking up at him with those clear blue eyes so open. “Iron Bull.”

“Yeah.”

“If I asked, would—would you kiss me?”

Instinctively, he licked his lower lip, staring at hers, so red and full. He wanted to, but he was still afraid that something in the intimate touch of lips and tongues would be too much, just enough to push him over the edge and lose himself—or, better and worse at the same time, that it would tell her all the things he wasn't sure he wanted her to know.

She nodded, taking his silence for the 'no', or rather, the 'I can't', that it was. “I didn't think so.” The predatory look came back into her face. “Take off your clothes and lie down on the bed.” She leaned against his bedpost, watching as he followed her orders.

He was already half-hard just watching her watch him. Lying down on the bed, naked, he folded his arms under his head and waited for further instructions.

Ren eyed him up and down. She so rarely got to just look—and she'd never gotten to touch. And she wanted to touch. Badly. She stretched out on her side next to him, as he had done so often in her bed. Hers was bigger; he took up most of this one.

He was watching her, waiting, and she smiled, leaning over so her mouth was very close to his ear, letting her warm breath waft over it as she spoke. “I've wanted to do this for a long time. I intend to touch, and taste, and lick, and suck ...” She drew out the last word very slowly, feeling him shiver, and she chuckled. “I'm not going to blindfold you, because I want to see your face. And I'm not going to gag you, because I want to hear every single sound you make.”

He did make a sound at that, something between a sigh and a groan.

“And I'm not going to tie your hands, because I want you to hold them still yourself with all that famous willpower you have.” With the tip of her tongue, she traced the crinkled edge of his ear, and he shivered again.

And then she set to work in earnest, exploring with hands and lips and tongue.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lying there, trying his best to remain immobile, the Iron Bull was certain he was going to die. She was going to kill him. That was clearly her goal. She had had her hands and mouth on every part of his body, from his neck to his chest to his inner thighs to his calves and the arches of his feet and back up again to the back of his knees and the sensitive skin just inside his hipbones and his nipples and his throat and now she was back at his ears again. She had drawn quivers and sighs and strangled moans and inarticulate cries that might have been her name from him with surprising ease; she had hummed and chuckled and groaned in appreciation as her tongue and teeth and slender little fingers slowly drove him out of his mind.

At some point, her clothes had come off, stripped off as the heat rose in her, and it had been as much as he could do to hold himself down and not reach for her.

And still, she had deftly avoided his hard, aching cock, except for brief brushes in passing of her hair or her breath, or once, exquisitely painfully, her breasts. If he could have brought himself to do so, he'd have been begging her, but he couldn't seem to get the words out.

Ren nipped the tip of his ear, nuzzling the edge. And then she moved, straddling his stomach, leaning over with her hands on his where they lay next to his head. Instinctively, the Iron Bull curled his fingers around hers, holding on tight. She bent over him. “I forgot to tell you the last part of my plan,” she whispered. “Because don't think I haven't noticed in all of this how careful you've been to always make it about what I want. Tonight, I want to hear what you want. So you can embrace that Qunari stoicism of yours and pretend you don't give a good fuck if you'd rather ... but if you want to get a good fuck, you have to tell me you want it.” 

The Iron Bull groaned, closing his eye so he wouldn't have to see hers. Ren waited. She knew what she was asking, but ... she needed it. It wasn't enough to have him because he wanted to fill her needs, not any longer. This once, she needed to hear that it was what he wanted, too.

“Fuck,” he whispered at last.

She smiled. “Add a 'please' and a 'me', and you'll have it.” Nothing further was forthcoming, and she leaned down further, her mouth almost brushing his. “You want it so bad you're shaking, Bull, and I'm so wet for you I'm dripping on your cock, and you're going to let a few words stand in the way. Do you trust me or don't you?”

He clenched his teeth, torn between fear and lust and other things he didn't want to put a name to. “Yes.”

“Then tell me what you want,” she growled. “Open your eye, Iron Bull.”

The Iron Bull did as she said. Deep behind the blue of her eyes, he glimpsed that vul-nerable girl again, and he could see the uncertainty she was pretending not to feel. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bruises he had left on her arms. Hadn't she done enough for him? He owed her his life and his sanity, everything that made him who he was, many times over. "Morvoren." She brushed against him, lightly, and the next word was jerked out of him in response. "Please."

Her fingers tightened around his, and he could see the perspiration on her face from holding herself there above him, the glitter in her eyes. 

He let go, the words rushing from him. "I need you." 

He would remember the brilliance of the smile she gave him then for the rest of his life. The next moment, she was sinking down on him, her wet warmth enveloping his cock. He held her hands tightly, afraid that if he let go she would disappear and this would all have been a dream. 

Ren hadn't been exaggerating her state of arousal. Somewhere in the back of her mind it occurred to her to wonder how it was possible to be so turned on when he hadn't touched her. She had been imagining what it would be like to be able to touch that big body and make it respond for a long time, and he had responded, beautifully; his sighs and groans and twitches and the way he couldn't keep still beneath her had far exceeded anything she had hoped for in her fantasies. What did it say that his pleasure had been so arousing to her, though?

Then she was on top of him, filled with him, and it no longer mattered why it felt so good. She held herself there for a moment, letting herself stretch around him, but she was too close to the edge to take it slowly. A few long strokes had her clenching around him, her head thrown back, only his grip on her hands keeping her from collapsing into a boneless heap. But it wasn't enough, for her or for him, and when she had recovered she found him watching her, waiting for her, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still beneath her.

“Now, Bull,” she whispered, and they moved together, shaking the bed with the force of their need. Ren rarely got to watch his face as he came, and that turned her on as much as his movements beneath her, so that her climax followed his.

They lay together, panting, for a long time, letting their bodies cool. At last he groaned. “That was good, boss.”

“Thank you.” Ren laid her head on his shoulder, smiling. His arm curved around her.

“You had more to say than usual.”

“Usually you don't let me talk. Against the rules, remember?”

“Hm. We may need to revise some of the rules.”

“Does that mean I get to touch more often?”

The Iron Bull frowned thoughtfully. “No, I don't think so. It really didn't work for me.” Ren raised her eyebrows in surprise and he turned his head, his eye twinkling. “What do you think?”

Ren nuzzled the side of his neck. “I think I get to touch more often.”

“Oh, yeah.” He sighed, supremely content. It occurred to him that he could quite happily lie there all night, just the two of them. And that was dangerous. “You should get back.” Of course, his hand was splayed across her lower back, holding her against him, which made his recommendation rather toothless.

And there it was, Ren thought. He was never comfortable with the aftermath, unless he wanted to go again. But in this case, she got to choose, and Ren settled herself more firmly into the crook of his neck. “The party's still going on down there. Someone would see me and wonder where I'd been. Besides, it's cold out there.”

“You need further warming up?” the Iron Bull asked.

Ren lifted her head to look at him. “Could you?”

He thought about that. “Usually, I'd say yes, but ... that was pretty intense. Damn, woman.” He rubbed his hand over her arm to warm her. His fingers slid over the marks there—the marks he had made. “In the Fade ... I'm sorry about this.”

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“You were freaking out, under the influence of a demon. You lashed out at the person who was closest to you, the one who was pushing you. That happened to be me. It could have been anyone.”

“But it wasn't; it was you.”

Ren sighed, sitting up so she could see his face more clearly. “Yes, but I could have sent either Hawke or Stroud to deal with you instead of going myself. And before you say I wouldn't have done that—which is true—the point is, if you and I had been in an argument and you'd done that, we wouldn't be having this conversation. But you weren't fully in control of your mind at the time.”

“Yes, because _that_ is so much better.”

“Come on, Bull, it's like telling someone not to think of brontos, and immediately that's all they can think of. You were in the Fade, the place that scares you most, and all you could think of was how afraid you were of having your mind taken over by a demon. Naturally, you were vulnerable to it.”

He closed his eye so he couldn't see her.

“If it ever happened again, you'd be prepared,” Ren continued, chuckling when his eye flew open.

“Again? It better never fucking happen again. One trip through the Fade is more than enough.”

“Agreed.”

The Iron Bull propped himself up on his elbow, frowning at her. “Why weren't you afraid?”

Ren shrugged. “I think the demon was more afraid of me than anyone else, because it was my lost memories holding us there, and because if I got back out and closed the rift it would never get to come out and take form in our world. So it kept trying to make me afraid of getting my memories back and never bothered to look further.” She looked at him for a moment, then added, “Besides, I think it thought if it got you, you would kill me, so it could save its energy.”

He was studying her, that thoughtful frown still on his face. “So what are you afraid of?”

“Come on, Ben-Hassrath. You need to ask?”

“A challenge? All right.” The Iron Bull sat up, cupping her chin in his hand, looking into her eyes, which met his without blinking. “It's about who you are,” he said at last. “You want to be seen for yourself, but you don't want to be, at the same time. You pretend to be an open book, but you never talk about yourself.”

“To be fair,” Ren said dryly, fighting the urge to turn away from him so he couldn't see anything else, “no one ever asks.”

The Iron Bull chuckled. “No, we really don't, do we? Bunch of selfish bastards. So ... I'm asking. Tell me something you haven't told anyone else in Skyhold.”

“Everything I tell you is something I haven't told anyone else in Skyhold,” Ren said.

He'd known that, of course, but to hear her say it felt ... good. Better than good. “Fine, then, something you've never told me before.”

“All right.” She thought about that. “Do you want to know why I interrupted Corypheus's ritual?”

“You were bored and looking for something to steal?”

Her eyes widened. “Exactly.”

He grinned at her surprise. “I guessed as much. And I know you were at the Conclave because your family pledged you to the Chantry. But I don't know how you got from the Raiders to the Chantry.”

Ren sighed. “The last job I did with the Raiders went ... south. Several of us got locked up by the Markham city guards. Dooley was killed; he would have come after us if he'd lived, but his second-in-command wanted to reorganize and wasn't opposed to a few less bodies to worry about. Somehow my father found out I was in jail, and he sprung me ... but on the condition that I let him arrange a marriage for me. Since an arranged marriage was why I ran away and joined the Raiders in the first place, I was, as you might imagine, reluctant to agree. The other option was to join the Chantry, and I figured I had a better chance of getting out of that one at some point.”

“But you're a grown woman; why wasn't it your choice what to do?”

“Noblewomen are never really adults. You must know that. We're commodities, to be traded to the highest bidder.”

“So much for freedom,” he said, remembering the conversation they'd had about that back in the tavern in Haven.

“Some of us are less free than others,” she agreed. “But it led me here, so I can't complain, I suppose.” Ren got up, collecting her clothes. “I think the party's died down.”

The Iron Bull caught himself on the verge of asking her to stay. “Probably a good idea,” he agreed. For the first time, he wondered if it was really worth all this subterfuge. So what if the Inquisition knew who she slept with? But that was crazy—he was still Qunari, after all. He knew without having to ask how the nobility Josephine was always trying to court would react if the Inquisitor was known to be in some kind of relationship with a Qunari. Sleeping with one on the sly, that was practically a badge of honor—he should know, having had a number of Orlesian nobles throw themselves at him in his years with the Chargers. But a sustained relationship, even one mostly based on sex, was no good for her reputation.

He sighed, watching her pull her clothes back on over that delectable ass of hers. “See you tomorrow?” 

Ren grinned at him over her shoulder. “Of course. My room, though. My bed is a lot more comfortable.”


	27. Jealousy and Desire

They had been wandering through the Emerald Graves for a couple of days now, closing rifts and dodging giants. As was typical for any time they explored a new territory, Ren was irritated by the sheer number of tasks in front of her—they seemed to breed like nugs. For every one she accomplished, two more appeared in its place.

Her level of irritation wasn't helped by the companions she had brought along. In addition to herself and the Iron Bull, there was Blackwall, who stuck to her side quietly cheerful but with a sincerity shining in his face that made her feel guilty. And Vivienne, who blithely put up with all the inconveniences of being out in the world but with an air of condescension that made it plain that she was there only on sufferance and if Ren truly knew what she was doing they would already be heading back to Skyhold with all their tasks achieved.

And heading back to Skyhold was very much what Ren wanted to do. The night she had spent in the Iron Bull's room and the one following had been ... even more fulfilling than usual, and having his sweaty, muscular, half-naked body in front of her was a temptation she was having a harder and harder time looking away from.

They stopped for a bite to eat near the pretty river that ran through so much of the Graves. Ren could feel another rift around somewhere near, the Anchor itching and tingling so that she could barely sit still to eat her food. It was moments like this she wished she could cut off her hand and give it to someone else for a while. She got up and wandered to the water's edge, idly throwing pebbles in while she waited for the others to finish eating.

“Iron Bull,” Vivienne said speculatively, and without looking Ren could picture the look on the mage's face, like a spider watching a fly. She gritted her teeth.

“Yes, ma'am?” he said meekly. It was a tone he reserved for no one else; just Vivienne.

“You know, I think all that leather ... it doesn't do you justice. When we get back to Skyhold, we will have to see what we can do about your wardrobe.”

“No. No way you're putting me into some puffy-sleeved crap,” he growled.

“Of course not, darling. Puffed sleeves would waste those magnificent shoulders.”

They were magnificent, Ren had to admit. They were also taken. Taken shoulders. It was all she could do to remember that that was not common knowledge and not turn around and stake her claim loudly in order to shut the mage up.

“Hm,” Vivienne continued thoughtfully. Ren could imagine her eyeing the Iron Bull with appreciation. “A purple coat, tight at the waist, slashed with silver. Emerald accents. Open at the collar to accentuate your chest.”

Damn it. That did sound sexy, at that. Ren tossed a much larger stone into the water to relieve her frustration.

“Every woman will want you,” Vivienne purred. “Every man will want to be you.”

Well, that was all well and good, Ren thought, but they already did. She waited for the Iron Bull's reaction, hoping he would shut Vivienne down ... but he didn't. He never did, with her. Always 'yes, ma'am,' 'no, ma'am'. Argh.

“Actually,” he said, “that does sound good. Tell me more about this coat.”

“Fade rift,” Ren said, loudly and abruptly. “Fade rift, over there. Let's move.” She started off without waiting for the rest of them, afraid of what she would say. For the love of the Maker, did he have to play along with the mage?

But Vivienne didn't let it go. She kept up a running commentary all the way to the rift, trying to teach the Iron Bull some type of Orlesian dance. And he let her! Ren gritted her teeth some more and tried not to think about the Iron Bull dancing. Which was a distracting image not just because she suspected he would do it well, as he did most things, but also because it made her think of the Empress of Orlais' ball at the Winter Palace, coming up in a very short month.

Ren managed to keep them busy the rest of the day, although none of it stopped Vivienne from talking, or the Iron Bull from bowing and scraping to her. Or Blackwall from walking silently next to Ren watching her out of the corner of his eye.

She was very glad to make camp that night with a forward unit of the Inquisition. She and her companions often made their own small camps while on expedition, but she vastly preferred camping with Inquisition forces. Safer, for one. Better infrastructure, and therefore better food and more comfortable sleeping areas, for another. Ren enjoyed the chance to get to know the front-line soldiers better, too, in a slightly more informal setting than Skyhold offered, and being in an official camp meant she got reports in from Skyhold more quickly.

In this case, it also meant distractions. The Iron Bull was pulled into a game of Wicked Grace by several of the men, and Vivienne took the chance to go to bed early as she often did, which left Ren able to relax a bit without the mage's constant flirting setting her teeth on edge.

She sat down on an upturned log at the edge of camp, listening to the card game and enjoying the momentary respite from all the cares of the Inquisition. Although she was going to have to complain to Cullen about the quality of ale served to the forward troops.

To her dismay, Blackwall joined her, pulling up another log. “Inquisitor.”

“Blackwall. Good work today.”

“Hardly, but thank you for the thought.”

“No, really,” Ren said. It was the truth; Blackwall fought hard and with skill. “You took on two rage demons on your own. Not a lot of men can say that.”

“I suppose not.” There was a pause, and then he said, in a tone of forced casualness, “Have you given any thought to what you might do when Corypheus has been defeated?”

Ren's eyebrows flew up, and she couldn't help but laugh. “Not at all. Corypheus is enough of a goal for me.”

“Then you haven't thought about the Inquisition's role going forward?”

“I leave that to Cassandra and Leliana. They have more than enough opinions on that topic. Why? Do you have some ideas?”

Blackwall leaned forward, his eyes intense on hers. “I just know ... you could shake this earth to its foundations if you willed it.”

It wasn't a statement about the Inquisition as much as it was about Ren herself; the suppressed emotion in his voice made her shiver, but not the way it would have coming from ... someone else. “Blackwall. This is— I'm sorry, but, I'm ...” What was she? Involved? She couldn't even say that, not really. Sneaking around having illicit sex? That wouldn't dissuade Blackwall. He'd just tell her she deserved better.

“No, no,” he said, getting up, apparently oblivious to her tormented thoughts. “I'm the one who should apologize. Here you are with more than enough on your plate here in the present, and I'm talking to you about the future. Good-night, Inquisitor.”

Ren watched him go, dissatisfied. Somehow she felt she still hadn't gotten the point across, and she felt badly about that. Blackwall was a good man, and she might have found him tempting if she was another kind of woman. But she wasn't, and she didn't, and she wished there was a way to make that clear to him without hurting him.

Sighing, she got up off the log and left camp, making her way through the stand of trees nearby toward the stream to wash her face and hands. She'd have loved to take a full bath, but that didn't seem sensible in the dark, with great bears wandering around, and not far enough from the camp for an assurance of privacy.   
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull was by no means as unmoved as Ren thought him. He had been indulging Vivienne all day—all week, really—because it gave him something to do other than ogle Ren's amazing ass and remember her hands and mouth all over his body. Those memories came to him enough in his tent at night; he didn't need them driving him crazy all day, too.

But really, all he could think about was Ren, and how much he wanted to take her back to Skyhold and get her naked and keep her that way for ... days, at least, and how wrong it was that he should be into something so deeply that it was affecting his ability to discipline his thoughts. Well, wrong ... but nothing had ever felt quite so inevitable and just what he wanted.

He watched her disappear into the trees with some concern. Inquisitor or not, she shouldn't be wandering around alone in the dark, not with so many deadly things in the Graves—so many deadly things that really wanted to kill the Inquisitor. At least Blackwall wasn't following her, he consoled himself, but still, having her out of sight distracted him enough that he lost two hands in a row of Wicked Grace.

The Iron Bull had played the game enough to know he wasn't coming back from that, not tonight. Rather than throw good coin after bad, he excused himself from the game, and slowly sauntered into the trees in the direction Ren had gone, hoping enough time had passed that no one would notice he had followed her.

He found her coming back from the stream, her hair damp and pushed back off her face. “Hey, boss.”

“Hey? Really, that's what you have to say for yourself?” she snapped. She smacked him on the arm for good measure.

The Iron Bull raised his eyebrow. She was rarely this irritable. “What's that for?”

“You! 'Yes, ma'am'. ‘No, ma’am’. 'Tell me about the coat, ma'am.' 'Let me lick your boots, ma'am,'” Ren said, parodying his accent and his precise diction. 

“You want me to lick your boots, instead? I suppose I could, but I can't see you getting much pleasure out of that, really. Plenty of other things I'd rather lick.” He grinned.

“Really? You flirt with her all day, right in front of me, and you think I'm in the mood for that kind of talk?”

The Iron Bull's eye widened. She was jealous? Of Vivienne? Over him? “Are you serious?”

She growled, and he swallowed a grin. She was jealous. Fuck, that was hot. The Iron Bull took a step toward her; Ren stepped backward a couple of times, until her back landed solidly against a tree.

“What should I have said?” he asked her. “You want me to get my horns frozen to prove a point?”

“Maybe.”

“What about you, then?” He couldn't quite keep the edge from his voice. He liked Blackwall, but enough was enough. The man never seemed willing to take no for an answer. Either that, or Ren never actually gave him a firm enough no to put him off. “What about 'you could shake this earth to its foundations if you willed it'? Strong words. Romantic. Like poetry.”

“You couldn't possibly have heard that.”

“I didn't. I read lips.”

“Of course you do. Makes sense; good skill to have.” Ren sighed. “He won't come out and say anything directly, so I can't come out and say no directly. Very frustrating. I like Blackwall, but ...”

She let the words trail off just when they were getting interesting. The Iron Bull felt a tightening in his chest, an anxiety that was new to him. He had wondered before if letting her get too deep into this would harm her chances for a happy life later; maybe it was in her best interests to push her in another direction, little as he wanted to. “Would you ... rather be with a human?” He wasn't sure he wanted the answer. Maybe she should be; someone she could own up to being with, someone who could offer her all the things most women seemed to want outside the bedroom, someone more ... acceptable. But he didn't want her to want those things, and he wasn't quite sure what he would do if she said yes. Accept it outwardly, of course, but privately? His life would lose a lot of color if he wasn't with her.

Ren leaned her head back against the tree and looked up at him. “Bull, if I wanted someone else, I would be with someone else. What about you?” she added softly. “You're used to a different woman every night, and you've been stuck with just me for a while now. Would you rather get back to your ... variety?”

Surprised that she could even think that, he chuckled. “Not at all. I'm good.” If she only knew what a long time it had been since he had even wanted someone else. No other woman in his experience had ever made him feel quite like this. Being around her made his skin practically hum with excitement. Talking to her kept him on his toes, his brain sharp. And there was no denying that in her presence, he felt as though he belonged right where he was, all his nagging questions about the Qun or Tal-Vashoth or his place in the world silenced.

“Well ...” She swallowed hard as she formed the next sentence. “If you weren't, and you wanted ... I mean, I would understand.”

She wouldn't; he could hear it in her voice. If he acted on that offer, she would be hurt and she would try to hide it, and that would be the end of them. Fortunately, he had no desire to do so. Gently, the Iron Bull said, “No. Generous offer, but if I took you up on it, even once, you'd always be wondering when I would do it again.” Bracing one hand above her head against the tree, he leaned down toward her, his mouth very close to her ear. “And if you're waiting for me to make the same offer, you'll be waiting a long time. If this stops working for you and you want someone else, that's your call ... but as long as you're with me, I intend to keep you much too busy for your attention to wander.”

Ren gave a small sigh of what he imagined to be relief, although there was a faint quaver there that said arousal, too. The heat from her body and the scent of her surrounded him, getting into his head. Damn, but he wanted her right now.

Keeping his mouth near her ear, so close his lips were brushing the delicate shell, he whispered, “Fuck, woman. I can't wait to get you back to Skyhold and get you naked. I'm gonna make you feel so good.”

She moaned, arching her neck just a little, and he couldn't help kissing her there, just under the ear where he knew she was sensitive. And then farther down, along the side of her neck, unable to stop himself.

“Bull,” she whispered, the word a cross between a protest and a plea.

All he could think of was her small hands and the way they had felt on his body. He needed to feel that again. With his free hand he found hers and brought it to his chest. “Touch me.”

Her hand spread across his chest, the other one moving up his back and curling around his shoulder to pull herself against him, and then her mouth was on him, moving eagerly across his collarbone to the hollow of his throat. He groaned at the feel of it, like fire just under his skin, and he pressed closer against her, moving his hips against hers so she could feel how much he wanted her.

Ren's legs moved apart to let him fit better between them, her own hips shifting forward for a better angle, and he could hear her sigh in pleasure as he ground himself in just the right spot.

And then, from somewhere outside the trees, he heard a soldier's voice calling out, “Has anyone seen the Inquisitor?”

They broke apart, with several whispered but heartfelt curses, and Ren hastily brushed at her hair to make sure there was no bark in it before hurrying back to camp. The Iron Bull stayed where he was, as much because he was going to have to take care of his own needs before anyone else saw him as to make sure no one could tell they had been together. It was going to be a long trip back to Skyhold.


	28. Back in Bed Together

Ren rushed through the pile of letters and papers on her desk, dashing off quick scribbled notes on each of them that she knew her advisors would complain about later. This backlog was always the worst part of coming home to Skyhold, and particularly so today. After a week of frustration in the Emerald Graves, and especially after that very interesting interrupted interlude in the trees outside camp, all she could think about was the Iron Bull and how much she wanted him. Perhaps that wasn't very Inquisitorial of her ... but the Inquisitor was a real person, after all, and real people worked better when their needs were met. Or so she told herself.

They'd gotten in too late last night for any activity, and the morning had been filled with meetings. Midafternoon now, with the letters and reports finished, albeit hastily ... yes, Ren thought she could use a break.

Leaving the pile of papers with notes on Josephine's desk—and thanking the Maker that the Ambassador was out for once, and couldn't make her stop and go through them all right now—Ren hurried out of the keep.

One nice thing about being involved with the biggest man in Skyhold was that it was always easy to find him. Right now, he was sparring with Krem in the corner they preferred, both of them using practice shields.

She stopped to watch for a minute. Even at this distance, the Iron Bull's shoulders were impressive. Ren remembered running her hands over them, feeling the muscles move beneath the smooth skin. Maybe that was why it had been especially difficult for both of them to keep their hands off each other while they were out this time. They'd never had trouble maintaining distance and professionalism on an expedition before, but this time it seemed it was all they could think about, and Ren couldn't help but wonder if the fact that the door was open now for her to touch as well made the difference, made it hotter. It certainly did for her; while she certainly enjoyed being on the receiving end, there was a completeness involved in giving pleasure that she had missed.

She meandered across the courtyard, smiling and nodding to the people she passed, until she reached the corner.

“Hey, boss.” The Iron Bull did a creditable job of not looking at her, but less convincingly than usual.

Krem grinned at her. “Your Worship. Welcome back.”

He knew she hated that designation. “Krem de la creme. You're in good form today. Any news I should know about?”

“Pretty quiet around here, really.”

“And Flissa?” Ren had seen her assistant already that morning, glowing with happiness, but needling Krem was always fun.

“Seems fine.”

“Any message for her when I see her later?”

“Nothing I can't tell her myself.” He winked at her.

“Good. Iron Bull, how you holding up after our long trip?”

He grunted. Was she trying to torment him, standing there and chatting with Krem when it was hours yet before he could touch her? Knowing her, she might be. Then she winked at him, giving a little jerk of her head in the direction of her quarters, and all the blood in his body went straight to his cock. He stared at her in a really turned on state of shock.

And then something happened that had never happened before—Krem knocked the Iron Bull down with his shield.

They all remained frozen for a moment, before Krem gave a whoop of triumph and started dancing around. His grin said he knew just why that had happened, and he was going to count the coup anyway. 

The Iron Bull couldn’t blame him. He hadn't even seen his second-in-command coming in low on his blind side; the Inquisitor had him thoroughly off his game. “Good one,” he wheezed as Krem reached down at last to help him up.

“You all right, Bull?” Ren asked him in some concern.

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Good.” She grinned at him. “Very good.” And then she turned and sauntered away, her hips swaying and that gorgeous ass of hers taunting him.

“You need a moment, Chief?” Krem asked, smirking.

“A few moments, Krem. In fact, take the rest of the day,” he growled. The Iron Bull sure as fuck intended to.

It was trickier sneaking into her quarters in the middle of the afternoon than late at night; but the danger of getting caught added to the sexiness, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs in her quarters he was absolutely on fire.

Ren was sprawled naked across her bed, watching him. “Took you long enough.”

The Iron Bull growled, coming around the end of the bed to grab her knees, lifting and spreading them. Her gorgeous ass was fully displayed for him in this position, and he took a moment to fondle it. “You had better be as wet as the Waking Sea, woman, because I need you right now.”

Bracing her head on her folded arms, Ren sighed happily. “Yes, please.”

After a brief caress with his thumb to be sure she was ready, which she was, the Iron Bull wasted no further time. “Fu-uck.” He shuddered at the feeling of her all around him, so hot and wet.

Ren put her head down on her arms, closing her eyes. She thrust back at him, wanting more, and as she had expected he would, he smacked her on the ass, holding very still inside her. “Bull,” she pleaded.

“More?”

“Yes. Now, more, please.” She repeated those and his name as he thrust, his movements pushing her up and up and up until she couldn't take any more, and then he reached around her hip and touched her and she exploded against him, crying out.

Ren assumed he had finished, too, because when she came back to herself he was lying next to her, one hand gently caressing her back. She turned her head to look at him. “Sorry to disrupt your day.”

“Yeah, and I had a lot to do, too.” He grinned at her. “If I'd known you were up for it in the middle of the day, I'd have tried to sneak you up here more often.”

She looked over at the stairs. “Well, people do have a tendency to just drop in when they feel like it, so ... be prepared to hide.”

“What am I gonna do, hang off the balcony?”

Ren considered that for a moment, giggling at the image. The Iron Bull broke into a reluctant laugh, too. Lying there, she couldn't help but wonder what they were sneaking around for. Yeah, the danger of getting caught added a little spice, and yeah, the advisors probably would frown on it, and it wouldn't do much for her reputation with the nobility ... but on the other hand, if he made her happy, which he did, wasn't it a little rude of her to hide him as if she was ashamed of him?

She looked up at his familiar scarred face and decided that once they were back from the Winter Palace, she was going to find out how he felt about going public. Thinking of the Winter Palace turned out to be a mistake, though, because it reminded her that she needed to talk to him about it. “Hey.”

“Uh-oh.” The Iron Bull wasn't too concerned by her serious tone; she'd been as into it as he was, and as desperate in the Emerald Graves to get home and back in bed together. Whatever it was, she seemed unlikely to be about to end things.

“No, nothing bad. Well, not too bad ...”

“Out with it.”

“I know, no work talk up here, but I wanted to ask ... I mean, after how badly the last thing I asked you to do for me went, and I'm sure it's not at all your thing ...”

Ren looked and sounded so uncharacteristically nervous and ill at ease that the Iron Bull decided to let her down easy. “Hey, yourself.” He threaded his fingers through her silky hair, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “If this is about the Winter Palace ... there's nowhere you can go that I wouldn't go with you. Nowhere. Minrathous, the Black City, the edges of Thedas and beyond ... if you're going, so am I.”

Grateful for the words, and for the tone, so very serious and certain, Ren wriggled closer so she could tuck herself against his chest. “Good. As long as you don't get Vivienne to teach you how to dance.”

The Iron Bull threw his head back and roared with laughter at that one. Rolling onto his back, he took her with him, still stroking her hair. “You think I need Madame de Fer to teach me to dance? Hardly. You know how many Orlesians I've fucked?” He could feel Ren tense against him and wished he had been a bit less blunt about it. “Long time ago, naturally. Still, they all had a thing for the savage barbarian learning all the dainty little mincing steps.”

“Oh. Well, good, then,” she said in a small voice. It was stupid, she thought, to be upset because long before he met her he'd had a life, and a job that involved sleeping with people to get things out of them ... and a mindset built in him from childhood that said it didn't matter who he slept with. With an effort, she pushed all that away and sat up to look at him better. “So you'll go, and ... Dorian, I think.”

“You're taking a Vint and a Qunari?”

“Orlesians do love the exotic. I think I'll take Varric, too. The three of you ought to be quite the hits at the palace.”

“What about you? Going to dress in some fancy gown and try to attract all the Orlesian fops?”

“No, it's a working ball for me. Josephine tells me we're all going in uniform, which is fine. Dresses are nice, but not when half the people at the ball are going to want me dead.” She wondered briefly if her sister Demelza would be there. The oldest of Ren's three elder half-sisters, Demelza had married into Orlesian nobility many years ago. Ren hadn't heard much about her in a while; they'd never been all that close.

The Iron Bull groaned suddenly. “Damn it.”

“What?”

“Just occurred to me—all the time we're in Val Royeaux, it'll be hands off again.”

Ren looked at him, her eyebrows raised. “Damn it,” she echoed, renewing her decision to revisit this whole secrecy nightmare when they got back. All this keeping apart when all she wanted was to be with him was clearly too distracting to be good for the Inquisition. She bent down and ran her lips along a scar on his abdomen, smiling at his sharply hissed intake of breath in response. “Better make the most of our private time now, wouldn't you say?”

“Oh, yeah.” He groaned, tangling his hands in her hair as her mouth kept moving lower. “Good plan.”


	29. Complications

Ren could think of about a thousand places she would rather be right now than in the Winter Palace in the middle of a ball. Looking around at her companions, she caught Cullen's eye, and they winced together. Just slightly—enough to show solidarity, but not enough to be observed. Leliana and Josephine were in their element, their cheeks flushed and their eyes shining. Dorian, Varric, and the Iron Bull all wore similar expressions of amused tolerance. It might not be their favorite place, but they intended to have some fun, nonetheless. Ren felt she should cultivate that attitude—the Iron Bull had said as much before they left Skyhold—but when it came right down to it, if the assassination succeeded tonight, she would be the one who had failed to protect the Empress, and she would be the one who had doomed them all to the future she had glimpsed in Redcliffe. They had taken Corypheus's demon army away, but he had plenty of power still to make the future miserable.

If she was going to prevent that future, Ren was going to have to focus on the present. For the moment, they were milling about the gardens outside the palace, waiting for the doors to be opened. Everyone had scattered, easy to spot in their matching bright red uniforms, mingling with the crowd and hearing what there was to be heard.

Ren hadn't been given the task of doing any eavesdropping, as Leliana assumed that most people in Ren's presence would mostly be talking about ... Ren. So for the moment, Ren felt all right sticking to the Iron Bull's side, since she wouldn't have much chance to spend time with him the rest of the night. Also because he looked startlingly, devastatingly sexy in the uniform. It seemed odd; it seemed wrong—a tailored uniform was such a far cry from what he usually wore—but it really worked on him.

She said as much, under her breath. He looked down at her, raising his eyebrow. “You don't say.”

“If we weren't at the Winter Palace, I'd be demonstrating the effect.”

“If we weren't at the Winter Palace, I wouldn't be wearing this itchy jacket.”

Ren looked up at him, widening her blue eyes. “Even for me?”

The Iron Bull was not proof against that look. He should have been, he told himself, but he really wasn't. “Well ... maybe for you. Depending on what would be in it for me.” This was a dangerous conversation to have, even at a very low volume, here in the palace gardens. He was going to stop talking to her. Any minute now.

“I suppose you've had dealings with a lot of these people,” Ren said, looking around them. “You and the Chargers?”

He nodded. “Me and the Chargers ... or just me.” He scanned the crowd, counting familiar faces—and where the faces were covered by masks, familiar bodies and movements. “If you know what I mean.” Part of him thought he should probably take it easy on her with his past ... but she had a past, too. She was no virgin. And what they had together couldn't be compared to tumbles he had taken with Orlesian nobles for his job. He thought of her hands and mouth on him and had to repress a shiver. No one's touch had ever had quite the same effect on him before.

Ren sighed, not having followed his thought processes. “Which ones?” she asked. She didn't want to know ... but on the other hand, it was ridiculous to feel strange about things he had done with other people long before he'd met her.

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged, looking around. “That one,” gesturing at a plump woman in a flowered gown. “And that one”; a tall, willowy blonde. Too thin for him—he'd been afraid he would break her. “That one”; a long-nosed dark-haired gentleman. He watched Ren for a reaction, but there wasn't one, just a nod. “That one there.” He was surprised to see Ren stiffen as he indicated the red-headed woman in the purple dress.

“Wait,” Ren said, an edge to her tone. “The one in lilac?”

“Lilac?” She expected him to tell the difference between shades of purple now? “Light purple, yeah. Red hair. Kind of like yours.”

“Damn it!”

“What?”

“That's my sister.”

“Oh.” There wasn't much he could say to that.

“You fucked my sister,” Ren hissed.

“Yeah. Looks like it.” The redhead in the purple dress—Lady Bouchard, if memory served—was looking at them now, her eye drawn first to him, and then downward. He didn't miss the way her mouth curled when she saw Ren. Not a lot of love lost there, it appeared. Which didn't surprise him, given that in all the time they'd spent together, Ren had never once mentioned her siblings by name.

“Damn it, now I have to go talk to her, knowing ... I mean, I know you didn't know I had a sister, and you didn't know I existed, but ...” She groaned. “This night could have started off a lot less awkwardly.”

The Iron Bull shrugged. He watched her for a moment as she walked across the courtyard toward her sister, admiring the way the careful tailoring of her uniform hugged her curves and emphasized her very fine ass. Then he turned away, doing his best to take his mind off of her and get it back on the intelligence gathering he was here for. It really wasn't much different from being in the Ben-Hassrath ... except the person giving him his orders was a lot better-looking than Gatt.

Ren met her sister near a fountain. She tried to remember when the last time was that they had seen each other. Six, seven years? Ren had been seventeen or eighteen. Demelza was nine years her senior; she had tried several times to take Ren in hand when Ren was small, but it had never lasted. Ren had been too much of a tomboy, too much used to having her own way and being allowed to run free while the maids doted on her older sisters and the nannies and tutors fawned on her brothers. And Demelza had never exactly been the maternal type. There was a reason she had never produced any offspring of her own.

“Ren?” Demelza was frowning at her. “I had heard the Inquisitor was named Trevelyan, but I never imagined ... I thought it had to be a cousin of some kind.” She looked Ren up and down, her expression saying she rather wished it had been. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine, thank you,” Ren said, equalling her sister in politeness and distance. “And yourself?”

“Couldn't be better. Pierre is at the country estates, which leaves me alone here at the ball to ... mingle.” Demelza smiled. Her eyes were following something over Ren's shoulder. Something like the Iron Bull, Ren realized with a sinking heart.

“How nice for you,” she managed, trying not to think of him in bed with Demelza. Trying, and failing.

“And you—what a ... cute uniform. So like your usual style.”

“It is comfortable,” Ren said. She imagined the heavy jewel-encrusted gown Demelza wore wasn't quite as comfortable. “Sister dear,” she said, on a sudden inspiration, “do you see anyone particularly surprising here? I'm all out of the loop on the gossip, and I'd love to have something to tell the next person I run into.”

“Ah. Of course.” Demelza gave her a pitying look. “Naturally. Well, besides that hot dish of a Qunari you brought along—you know he's a mercenary, don't you, darling?” At Ren's nod, she continued. “Otherwise ... I’m sure you’re aware that there are peace talks tonight. They are trying to end this ridiculous war. And about time, as well. It's all anyone can talk about—it's made all the parties this season quite boring.”

“We couldn't have that, now.”

“No, indeed.” Demelza glanced around. “The servants seem remarkably untrained. Did you see, that one just left his tray and walked off. Not at all the thing.”

Ren followed her sister's gaze. There did seem to be quite a few elven servants who appeared to have nothing to do, and they had a surprisingly insolent air about them. “Very interesting.” Movement around them indicated the doors had been opened, and Ren saw Leliana beckoning to her. “I'm afraid I'll have to go,” she said. “Good seeing you, Demelza.”

“And you, sister dear. Do you hear anything from Cadoc or Father?”

“Not since before the Conclave.” Ren could remember sinking into the leather chair in Father's study while he lectured her on her responsibilities to the family, her brother Cadoc sitting there so silent that she couldn't tell if he agreed or not. It had almost been a relief to get to the Chantry. “No doubt I'll hear from them at some point, as the Inquisition's power grows.”

“Yes.” Demelza's grey eyes grew calculating. “It has rather gathered a fair amount, hasn't it? Perhaps I will have to pay your charming little Skyhold a visit, sister.”

“Oh, will you? How lovely,” Ren lied, convincing neither of them. She left her sister and joined Leliana, who introduced her to Duke Gaspard, Empress Celene's rival for the throne, and with an effort Ren put her sister and all her personal issues out of her mind, focusing on the Duke and the tasks of the Inquisition.

The Duke was exerting himself to be pleasant to the Inquisitor, so Ren exerted herself to be pleasant in return; flirtatious, even.

The Iron Bull watched her without seeming to, noting with approval the naturalness of her conversation. She was being herself, but the polished version, and that would satisfy Orlais. He followed behind her as she entered the ballroom on the Duke's arm, as the Duke was presented to the Empress and then turned to present Ren in his turn, marking himself as being affiliated with the Inquisition.

“Lady Inquisitor Morvoren Alys Trevelyan,” the announcer intoned.

It was a pretty name; the Iron Bull had always thought so, since he first read it in a report. He'd looked it up—Morvoren meant “mermaid,” which had all sorts of interesting possibilities. He would love to have her naked in the ocean, to make love to her—shit. He pulled himself back from that thought, looking at it, almost missing his own introduction. Distractedly he nodded his head to the cheers in response to his name—and a few catcalls—as he turned over the idea of making love. He was comfortable, more than comfortable, with sex, in all its various terms and definitions, but love? That was a new one.

His eye rested on Ren's shining red head as she spoke with Empress Celene. That was what it was, wasn't it? She was kadan. She was where his heart lay. Which made him a sappy-ass fool, but didn't make him any more what she needed in the long run than he had ever been. She was the Inquisitor, the daughter of a human noble—a young woman who would someday want all the trappings of a normal life, southern-style, and those he couldn't give her. Not that she had asked him to. There was no reason for him to assume she saw him as anything more than a friend with benefits—she'd made her dislike for commitments plain and had never made any move to argue about the need for secrecy to conceal their liaison. And the Winter Palace was entirely the wrong place for all this deep thinking, anyway.

The Iron Bull nodded sharply to himself, turning to mingle with the other guests as he saw Leliana waylay Ren at the edge of the ballroom. He would continue things the way they had been until it became clear they weren't working for her any longer, then he would bow out of her life. Anything else would be unfair to her.

He made his way to the buffet table, beginning to load up a plate, when an arch voice broke into his thoughts.

“Why, the Iron Bull! I had no idea you would be here.” Lady Demelza Bouchard was standing at his elbow, simpering at him. He hadn't found her particularly memorable in bed; now mostly he was studying her for some resemblance to Ren, but other than the red hair and a similar shape of nose, he didn't see one.

“My lady.”

“Still so courtly.” She giggled in a way more suited to a far younger woman. “And here with my sister, no less.”

“What?” For a moment, the Iron Bull thought perhaps she'd been able to tell that there was something going on between him and Ren, but looking into her wide grey eyes he could see she hadn't meant any such thing. “Yes, the Inquisition. Of course.”

“Been with them long?”

“A while. They pay on time.” He grinned.

“How nice.” Demelza's eyes flitted around his arm to something behind him. “And your Inquisitor my little sister. Who could have guessed. She looks awfully cozy with Gaspard.”

“Does she?” He kept his voice level and disinterested, turning his head to see Ren dancing gracefully around the floor in Gaspard's arms, giving every indication of enjoying herself.

“I wonder if we could make a match of it. She's never been much of a catch—so embarrassing, really—but now with the Inquisition behind her, perhaps ...” Demelza frowned speculatively. “You know her, Bull dear. What do you think, is she more malleable than she used to be?”

He wanted to snort at the very idea of Ren being malleable, but kept his response mild instead, shrugging. “Couldn't say. I'm just the hired muscle.”

Demelza eyed him up and down. “Indeed. In Val Royeaux long?”

“Afraid not; I think we're heading back to Skyhold as soon as possible.” He hoped so, anyway. On the dance floor, some other fop was dancing with Ren now, his hand drifting down over her ass, and the Iron Bull shoved a carrot stick loaded with dip into his mouth to hide the gnashing of his teeth. It was going to be a long night, watching all these men ogle and paw her, unlikely even to get a chance to dance with her himself, much as he wanted to.

Demelza, fortunately for him, was also watching her sister, calculating potential advantages. She simpered up at the Iron Bull again. “I do hope you'll save me a dance.”

She glided off before he had to answer, to his great relief, leaving him there by the buffet table. He tore his eyes off Ren on the dance floor and started studying the people around him, practicing his observational skills. Maybe he could find the assassin himself and they could all get the fuck out of this miserable place.


	30. Peacocks and Politics

Ren reentered the party, hoping no one had noticed her absence. In retrospect, these red uniforms had been a ridiculous choice if she was going to spend the entire ball poking her nose around in forbidden areas of the castle. She'd collected a fair amount of information, and had relayed most of it to Leliana, who was turning gossip into gold for the Inquisition. The rest of it, the parts pertinent to the assassination they suspected was planned for tonight, Ren was still turning over in her mind.

So much of what she had collected pointed toward Grand Duke Gaspard ... but the Duke himself was too relaxed. Nothing in him said that he was a man preparing to assassinate the Empress. And while certainly people in Orlais were skilled at the Game, the one thing most of them agreed on was that Gaspard couldn't play the Game if his life depended on it. No, something was very wrong there. Meanwhile, the elven Ambassador Briala seemed to have all the servants in the palace working for her, eavesdropping on the guests and having whispered conferences in corners when they thought no one was looking.

Ren had also had a most interesting conversation with Celene's occult advisor, who turned out to be the witch Morrigan, Leliana's companion from the Blight. The mage had offered her help, in a limited way, feeding Ren a very small amount of information. Ren wondered what more Morrigan had up her lace glove, but doubted she would find out until Morrigan was ready to tell her.

In the meantime, Ren needed a few moments of distraction before she continued on the hunt for the assassin. She looked around her, counting companions. Dorian and Josephine were on the dance floor, going through the movements of a complex dance with their partners, both of whom were very graceful young men. Varric was entertaining a knot of eager fans with snippets from his books. Cullen was standing around looking stiff and uncomfortable, if ornamental. The Iron Bull, also quite ornamental in his own way, was by the buffet tables, working his way steadily through the food. And Leliana, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be seen.

Ren headed for the food tables. Because she was hungry, she told herself. Yes. That was it.

“Hey,” she said to the Iron Bull.

“Hey, boss.” He looked down at her, noting with concern the dark circles under her eyes. This party was not her cup of cocoa at all; he kept hoping someone would just up and kill the Empress and get it over with so they could fight something and go home. “You got anything that needs killing?”

“Not yet.”

“Damn.” He frowned. “The nobles keep messing with me, and they think I don't know they're doing it. This keeps up, I'm gonna wear somebody's skull as my fancy little mask.”

Ren grinned. He was so refreshing after all the poncy little half-truth-tellers she'd been dancing with all night. “Not a fan of the masks, then?”

The Iron Bull considered that for a moment. “They're no good as disguises, and they don't cover the mouth or hide body language, so they're not much help for lying, either. As fashion goes ... I don't know. I've seen dumber?”

“I've seen dumber just tonight,” Ren said. “Did you see the woman with the live peacock strapped to her back?”

He laughed. “Yeah. She had to go home; it started clawing her. Blood dripping on the dance floor is apparently not at all the thing.”

“Pick up anything useful while you're pretending to be a dumb savage?”

“Yeah, they've got these candied nuts with some kind of spice on them. It's sweet until you swallow, and then, bam, hot!” He grinned at her. “Reminds me of something else.”

Ren raised an eyebrow. “I can't decide if that's an insult or a compliment.”

“'Bam, hot' is usually the latter.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

The Iron Bull tried to pull the conversation—and his mind—back to the business at hand. “Nothing on the assassins, though.”

Sighing, Ren looked around. She ought to go mingle again. A new dance would be beginning in a few minutes. “Looking at all this with the eyes of a Ben-Hassrath, what do you see?” she asked, trying to study the guests the way he would.

He shrugged. “It's a mess. Everyone's trying so hard to hide that they're all walking around in plumage. And not just the live peacock kind, either. Makes it tough to spot the dangerous lies, as opposed to the normal kind.” He tipped his chin toward a couple making small talk with one another in a corner. “That couple over there in the silver masks? The woman's doing one of the nobles, and the guy's doing two different servants.”

“Yeah, not much help there.” Ren could see the dancers leaving the floor. “I'd better get back at it.” She ran a hand through her hair, closing her eyes briefly. “I hate this. I'd rather be killing things.”

The Iron Bull wished he could take her back to Skyhold right that minute, where she could be safe. Barring that, he wished he had anything more useful to give her than his solidarity. “You and me both, boss.”

“Time to go dance again. I can't even get a decent dance partner.” She looked up at him. “I don't suppose you'd save me a dance?”

He laughed. “Oh, shit, the nobles would love that! Can you imagine Josephine's face, trying to explain that we were ...” The words trailed off as he caught a glimpse of that vulnerable girl in her eyes and realized that she hadn't been joking. A flush of excitement and pride and an odd, unusual pure happiness filled him suddenly. “Wait, were you serious? Because if so, then, yeah, absolutely!” he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he even had a chance to think about how they sounded and how much they gave away.

There was an eagerness in his voice Ren had only heard once or twice in all the time they'd spent together, and a hint at a vulnerability she had never seen. He truly hadn't expected her to ask him to dance. She smiled, to cover up how much she wanted to put her arms around him and kiss him right now. “Good, then.”

The Iron Bull got his heartrate under control with an effort. “Once we stop the assassins and all that?”

“Count on it.” Ren left him there at the buffet table, heading for the dance floor.

She was stopped at the edge of the dancing by the Grand Duchesse Florianne, Gaspard's sister, and the Iron Bull was surprised to see Ren lead Florianne onto the floor. He had watched Ren dance earlier, noting with approval that she was graceful and followed easily, but now she proved she had the skill and confidence to lead, as well. The entire ballroom stopped to watch the two women dance. The Iron Bull's chest swelled with pride—that was his kadan dancing so expertly, impressing half of Orlais. Something else was swelling, too ... the two of them together were very hot.

With an effort, he dragged his eyes off Ren's perfect ass moving so sinuously in those tightly tailored pants and looked up at her face, sobering instantly. She was smiling courteously, but something was off, and he looked more thoughtfully at Florianne.

Varric made his way through the crowd to stand next to him. “What do you think of that?”

“Hot.”

The dwarf chuckled. “That would be the first thing on your mind. What else?”

“Something's wrong there.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. So did Sparkler. He's disentangling himself from his ... dance partner and meeting us over here—looks like there might be some work to do.”

“Good.” The Iron Bull watched Ren dip the Grand Duchesse with a panache he had to admit he was surprised to see in her. Not that she didn't have the audacity to carry off a dance like that, he just hadn't known she had the skills. He looked forward to later, to getting all this over with and being able to dance with her himself.

Once the dance was over, Ren found them by the table. “Got your weapons handy, boys?”

“Something up, boss?”

“Come on. We're investigating the servants' quarters. Varric, you first.” She put a key in the dwarf's hand.

“Where'd you get that?” the Iron Bull asked, watching Dorian catch Varric's eye and follow the dwarf out into the vestibule.

“Morrigan.”

“The Morrigan? Blight Morrigan?” 

“She's here, as Celene's 'occult advisor'.”

“What happened on the dance floor, boss?”

Ren plastered a fake smile on her face to cover the seriousness of her comment. “Florianne knows too much. I'd bet a pile of royals that she's behind it, and is setting Gaspard up.” She jerked her head toward the vestibule. “You next; I'll be right there.”

“What's in the servants' quarters?” the Iron Bull asked.

“Trouble. Leliana said something nasty was going down there.”

“And you want to just walk in there?”

Ren looked up at him with a smile. “Well, I knew you were bored.”

The Iron Bull grinned back at her. “This party is looking up.”

They met in the servants' quarters a few minutes later; as far as Ren could tell, no one had paid too much attention to them leaving—helped out by Leliana and Josephine doing a very daring dance together to keep the other partygoers distracted.

All the hints and clues and lies were making Ren's head spin. Why wasn't Leliana doing all this investigating? Or the Iron Bull? Or anyone who wasn't her? She'd never been good at political intrigue or taking the threads of people's falsehoods and following them to the truth.

It was a relief to find the servants' quarters practically crawling with Venatori; finally some straightforward, uncomplicated fighting. Fortunately, Ren carried daggers hidden on her person at all times; Varric and Bianca were inseparable; and no one was going to try to tell the Iron Bull to leave his sword behind. Dorian was hampered slightly by the lack of a staff, but Ren could only tell that because she’d fought at his side so often. Even in their uniforms, the four of them were more than a match for the small knots of Venatori they ran into, although it was taking them a lot longer than she had hoped it would.

“What makes you think Florianne's involved, boss?” the Iron Bull asked as they made their way toward the gardens.

“She knows too much not to be. If she knew everything she says she knows about Gaspard and hasn't done anything about it, she's as traitorous as she paints him to be—but he doesn't seem to know everything she does.” Ren frowned. “I'm not explaining this very well, I just ... I know she's more involved than she says she is, and I know he's less involved.”

The Iron Bull was proud of her instincts, which were coming along nicely. They'd have to work on her conscious observation.

They came into a secluded courtyard, where Ren had been told to expect the leader of Gaspard's mercenaries. The man was there, all right, but so were Florianne, a host of archers, and a Fade rift already spewing demons.

“Fuck.”

Ren nodded along with the Iron Bull's succinct comment.

Florianne smiled down at her. “Too bad there won't be time for another dance, Inquisitor. But I think I will enjoy this more.”

She went on to spew a lot of starry-eyed crap about Corypheus giving her all of Thedas to rule when he became a god. The Iron Bull listened to enough to know the woman was batshit crazy, and then turned his eyes on the archers. Too many to discount, but if Dorian could freeze the ones on the left, he knew Varric carried a flash bomb that could blind the ones on the right, which would leave both sides open for his own blade, and Ren could take care of the rift. He glanced at the mage and the dwarf, their nods telling him they'd come to the same conclusion. They weren't the Chargers, but it was very satisfying to be fighting alongside people he could count on.

Ren was trying to decide if she could possibly make it up to the balcony to stop Florianne before the archers hit her, or one of the demons got to her, but the leap was too high.

“Kill her,” Florianne ordered. “Bring me the marked hand as proof.”

It had never occurred to Ren that the Anchor was really part of her before, but the threat to cut it off had her curling her hand against her body protectively. Her reaction surprised her; she'd have to consider it further later. For now, she unclenched her fist, raising it to the rift and feeling the familiar tug and tingle of the Fade power flowing from the Anchor as the rift slowly sealed.

Her companions were taking out the archers, and she drew her daggers and started in on the demons.

“We've got this, Rusty,” Varric shouted over the sounds of combat and the ratchet of Bianca loading another quarrel. “You go after Crazy up there.”

With a swift nod and a final slash at an inky-black shade, Ren hurried through the door that led in the direction of the ballroom.


	31. Dancing

Ren made her way back into the ballroom, finding that Florianne was promenading toward Celene on Gaspard's arm. Waving Cullen away, promising to fill him in later, Ren boldly approached the front of the ballroom, enjoying the stunned expression on Florianne's face.

“I believe we have time for that last dance after all, Your Grace,” she said, ignoring the shocked whispers at her boldness. The whispers would grow more shocked in a few minutes.

Florianne didn't lack for courage; she kept up the front of her innocence for as long as she could, but Ren had marshaled her evidence, and in the face of it, not even Gaspard or Celene herself stepped forward to defend the Grand Duchesse.

In a final moment of desperation, Florianne attacked Ren, trying to rake her nails down Ren's face, but Ren had a lot more close combat experience than Florianne, and her dagger easily found a home between the former Grand Duchesse's ribs. There were gasps, but they were more titillated than upset. A snap of Celene's fingers, and armed men appeared, taking the body away. The music had resumed before the blood was entirely mopped up.

The Empress, grateful for Ren's work in unmasking Florianne's intentions, brought Ren into the peace talks, which resulted in Briala being restored to Celene's good graces—and possibly her bed, if Ren was reading the looks between the two women correctly—and Gaspard being exiled. Ren regretted the necessity, having rather liked Gaspard, but ousting the Empress seemed to threaten the same troubles that allowing the Empress to be killed might have. She didn't want to leave Corypheus any openings.

The assembled nobility cheered her, and Celene promised Orlesian aid in the fight against Corypheus. Unbeknownst to Ren, Celene also promised Morrigan's aid as liaison to the Inquisition. Ren wasn't sure how she felt about that. All in all, she was really too tired to think too deeply about it. Morrigan's impact on the Inquisition could best be considered back in Skyhold.

Having delivered the news with about as much enthusiasm as Ren had felt on receiving it, Morrigan left her alone on the balcony, looking up into the starry night sky, enjoying a brief moment of peace in which no one was watching her.

But she wasn't alone for long. At least the heavy steps that echoed behind her were ones she recognized as belonging to the only person she really wanted to see right now.

“They ran out of that cheese dip,” the Iron Bull said. “I asked for more, and they gave me this look, the assholes.”

“Dorian said the ham tasted of despair.”

The Iron Bull gave that one some thought. “I wouldn't know; not sure I've ever tasted despair.”

“Lucky you.”

As soon as he came within arm's reach, she turned toward him, putting her arms tightly around him and pressing her face into his jacket. The Iron Bull looked at her for a moment, the red head lying on his chest, and then his arms closed around her, holding her to him. They had never done this before, this simple embrace. It felt surprisingly good.

The jacket was still so new it smelled of raw wool and the dye that had been used on it. Much as she liked the look of it on him, Ren missed the scent of him, smoke and leather and salt. But how good it felt to be safe here in his arms, to know for one small moment the rest of the world was looking after itself.

“You did good tonight, boss.”

“Thank you.” She pulled back, looking up at him. “Does that mean I deserve a reward?”

The words were lightly spoken, but the look in her eyes was anything but light. The Iron Bull could see the weariness in her, the need for comfort and reassurance, and he hoped she was about to ask for something he could give. “Such as?”

“Will you kiss me, Iron Bull?” Ren thought she understood why he hadn't so far, and certainly she could have found a way to initiate a kiss ... but she wanted it to come from him.

He rubbed his thumb lightly over her full lips. He had avoided this so far because he was afraid of losing himself in the intimacy of a kiss ... but he no longer feared that. He had lost his heart in her already; he wanted to lose himself entirely in her, to let the world narrow around them to nothing but mouth on mouth and skin on skin. But not here. “Later,” he promised, hearing the huskiness in his own voice. “Back in Skyhold.”

“What's wrong with now?”

He smiled. “Because if I start now, the next person who comes out here is going to find you on that railing with your uniform around your ankles and me buried in you as deep as I can go.”

Ren was glad for his arms around her, because her knees went weak at the image, the sound of his voice as he painted it for her, and the look in his eye. “Would that really be so bad?”

“Not afraid I'd drop you?”

“Never.”

Chuckling, he said, “I think you have railings back in Skyhold.”

“I do. I suppose I can wait until then.” She let go of him with a sigh. “If I have to.”

“Good. Besides, you promised me a dance, and it sounds like the music finally has enough of a beat for it.” He held his arm out, in as courtly a gesture as she had ever seen in a ballroom. Perhaps it should have surprised her, coming from him, but there were so many sides to him—as many facets as a diamond, she thought.

Ren took his arm, smiling up at him, remembering the eagerness in his voice when she had asked him to dance earlier. “I've been looking forward to it all night,” she assured him.

She withdrew her arm from his as they left the balcony, and his big hand dropped to the small of her back. She had felt his touch there before, but something about the subtle intimacy of it now, in the middle of the Winter Palace ... Ren wasn't sure she was going to make it all the way back to Skyhold.

The dance floor was humming. Late at night, the stately dances meant for show gave way to heavier drum beats and more lively country dances, and Ren gladly took her place on the floor.

She was not at all surprised that the Iron Bull could dance, and dance well. She had expected it, in fact. It was such fun to be whirled and spun around the dance floor, to come close to him one moment and then be twirled away the next. It was almost worth the events that had led up to it.

It was an effort to let him go at the end of the dance, to turn to Dorian, and then to be partnered by Josephine, and Leliana, and several Orlesians, before it was safe to find herself in the Iron Bull's arms again. Cullen didn't dance; nor did Varric. Both of them stood aside and watched. Even Leliana's best attempts at enticing him didn't move Cullen, and Ren wondered about the two of them anew. Perhaps Cullen saved all his moves for his office, she thought.

But it didn't matter, because the rhythm of the drums was in her blood, and the Iron Bull was in her arms, and it was the most fun she had had in a long time.


	32. Kiss

Ren rolled over to her other side, sighing loudly. She'd been trying to sleep for what felt like hours, but she was still so keyed up from the ball and all the dramatic events that it was hard to shut her brain down. They had danced for a little while, but Ren had been too tired to stay for long—not just the nonstop activity during the ball, but all the stress and pressure leading up to it, preparing for it, worrying about what Corypheus's agent would do ... all of it had come crashing down on her head. Leliana and Josephine had clearly been disappointed to leave the Winter Palace, and both of them had wanted to chatter all the way back to the house Josephine had borrowed from a friend for the Inquisition's use, to praise Ren for how well the night had gone and to start making plans for what the Inquisition could, and should, do next to solidify the strides made.

Ren had curled up in the corner of the carriage with her head on Dorian's shoulder and tried to stay awake, and tried not to make it obvious that she was wishing to be cuddled up in the Iron Bull's arms instead. He and Varric and Cullen had ridden in the other carriage.

By the time they'd reached the house, Ren had practically been asleep on her feet. So why was she wide awake now, lying here staring at the ceiling?

Jumbles of images flashed through her mind in the darkness, things that didn't go together—Florianne's face, the Iron Bull's jacket, Demelza teaching her to dance in the parlor at the townhouse in Ostwick, the dragon flying over the Storm Coast, the fireplace in her room at Skyhold, Gatt's green eyes narrowed in anger, Morrigan's head tilted to the side with a little smile playing across her mouth.

With a loud groan, Ren kicked the covers off herself, sitting up and rubbing her hands over her face. At this rate, it would be dawn before she got any sleep. She'd been hoping to get a decently early start back to Skyhold today, but if everyone else was having as much trouble sleeping as she was, and she suspected they might be, they'd be lucky to be ready to leave tomorrow at all.

If she was giving up on sleeping, then, and she believed she was, lying here alone had no temptations whatsoever, especially since she knew exactly where the Iron Bull's room was, and knew that he, too, would be lying there alone. She thought of him in that jacket, startlingly sexy, and of his moves on the dance floor, and of the way his arms had come around her on the balcony after a moment's hesitation. A deep heat began to build inside her, an ache that began in the pit of her stomach and traveled, and before she could make any conscious decisions she was off the bed and cracking the door open.

The hall was empty. Cullen had the Inquisition troops they had brought along patrolling the halls, just to be on the safe side, not trusting them to be secure from attempted assassinations, but Ren didn't see any of them just now. She slipped out through the door and down the hall and around a corner. As she passed a door, she heard a smothered groan and a giggle, and couldn't help smiling. Even Leliana had had trouble sleeping, apparently. Lucky Cullen.

Farther down the hall, she tried the doorknob of the room she wanted, surprised to find it unlocked. She slipped in, closing the door behind her.

The Iron Bull was lying on his bed looking at her, his eyebrow raised, his arms crossed over his massive chest. “You lost?”

“No.”

“Good.” He got up off the bed. “I could've killed you, you know.”

“You knew it would be me coming through the door.”

“I did,” he admitted.

“I couldn't sleep. And then I thought ... I expect I pissed a lot of people off tonight, maybe enough to make some of them want to kill me. So I probably shouldn't be alone. Just in case.”

She had a wide-eyed and innocent look on her face as she approached him with that thin story that didn't fool him in the least.

“You worried for yourself, or the potential assassin?”

Ren grinned. “Does it matter?”

“No.” The Iron Bull studied her beautiful face. He hadn't expected her to come to him tonight ... but he had hoped she would. Watching her all night, his heart swelling with pride in her as she cut through all the Orlesian bullshit to save the day, dancing with her but not quite close enough—it had been a slow, sweet torture. He had tried, just for a moment, to imagine having gone through this whole night without knowing that she was his, at least for now, that he would be the one savoring every delectable curve of her eventually, but it was too much to contemplate. Someday he would have to; someday he would have to let her go so she could find a future worthy of her, something more than a merc captain with no home could offer her ... but that day wasn't tonight, and for that he was grateful.

“Iron Bull.” Ren moved even closer to him, standing up on her tiptoes and putting her arms around his neck. “I believe you made me a promise.”

His eye was drawn to her lips as if by a magnet. “I said back in Skyhold,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but we're here now, and no one's going to disturb us for hours.”

“And here I thought you came in to play Wicked Grace,” he murmured.

She shook her head. “Unh-uh.”

Unable to take his eye off her mouth, the Iron Bull let his head drop slowly toward hers, hovering just there right above her lips for a moment, both of them absolutely still with anticipation, not even breathing. Then he bridged that last tiny space between them, his mouth finding hers. The initial touch was soft, light, almost tentative.

There was a gasp, a swift intake of breath; he wasn't sure who had made the sound, or if they both had. Her arms tightened around his neck, pulling her closer against him, and his arms wrapped more firmly around her, lifting her off the ground in his need to get even closer still. Her mouth was warm and soft and welcoming against his, her lips parting. The Iron Bull's tongue found hers, softly and then more boldly, and it was just as he had always imagined it would be—utterly consuming, the rest of the world falling away, the only thing that mattered the warmth of her and the erotic slide of their tongues against each other.

How long they stood there, kissing, he didn't know. His hand had anchored itself in the silkiness of her red hair, his fingers weaving through the strands to hold her head still for him, the taste of her intoxicating. Her legs were drawn up, hitched over his hips to hold herself there against him, and he could feel the heat of her even through the leggings she wore and his own linen pants. Reluctantly, he untangled his hand from her hair, holding her to him with one arm while his free hand worked at the fastenings of his pants, letting them fall, and then tugged awkwardly at her leggings, shifting them off her bit by bit.

Somewhere in the process he sank down on the edge of the bed, his hands under her thighs guiding them around his hips so that she straddled him, her body pressed tightly against his chest. The contact of her wet heat against his had them groaning into each other's mouths, and Ren rubbed herself up and down against him, kissing him harder.

The flames were rising between them, the heat almost unbearable. Ren lifted herself just enough, her mouth never leaving his, and sank down on top of him, slowly, inch by inch. In the process the growing desperation was calmed, and as she seated herself as fully on him as she was able the Iron Bull cradled her head gently, slowing the kiss, letting it match the almost leisurely pace she set as she began to rise and fall on him.

The little sounds she made in the back of her throat sent pulses of weakness through him. For once, he was glad to be in a position where he couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to, because he wasn't sure if he would have been able to. The pleasure was as great as any he had ever known, melting through his arms and legs, pooling in his stomach, spinning around in his head. The taste, the scent of her ... he kissed her more deeply, wanting to make this last as long as possible, wanting her to feel everything she made him feel.

Ren's fingers cupped the sides of his face, tilting his head up toward her as she rose above him, the urgency of her kiss increasing with the pace of her movements, until he felt her clench around him, shaking with the intensity of her climax. The Iron Bull's arms tightened instinctively around her, holding her to him as he thrust awkwardly up into her heat, finding his own release.

They ended the kiss at last, both of them breathing hard. He lay back on the pillows, pulling her with him, letting her arrange herself in a boneless heap over him, the ends of her silky red hair tickling his chest.

He didn't want to be the first to speak, to break the intimate silence between them, afraid of what he might say.

Ren was glad for her hair, spreading across her face and hiding it from his gaze as she rested against him. That had been ... different. Special. New. No games, no sense that he was constantly thinking about what to do to produce the greatest effect. As far as she could tell, he had been as consumed by that kiss, and the feelings it generated, as she had been ... and although it was what she had wanted, it raised a vague disquiet in the back of her mind, something faintly disturbing lurking just in the shadows.

In order to banish that disquiet, she lifted her head, resting her chin on her arms, folded across his chest. “I was beginning to think you didn't know how.”

He raised his eyebrow at that patent ridiculousness, and Ren chuckled.

“Who was your first kiss, Iron Bull?”

“Tamassran 144729554.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought you all had nicknames under the Qun.”

“Not her. She insisted on every digit.”

Ren grinned. “She sounds sexy.”

“Hardly.” He looked at her inquisitively. “Who was yours?”

“His name was Jordy. We were twelve.”

“Twelve? You were an early bloomer for a southerner.”

“What, were you ten?”

“No, more like fourteen, but I thought nice little noble girls kept themselves pure as long as they could.”

Ren hooted with laughter. “You did not think that, not and have been in bed with as many Orlesian nobles as you say you have.”

A slow, sleepy grin spread across his face. “All right, maybe that's an exaggeration.”

“You think? Besides, I was never exactly a nice little noble girl.”

“And let me guess—Jordy was a stable boy?”

“Please, give me credit for a little originality.” She winked at him. “He was a kitchen boy. My sister Ebrel was appalled when she found out.” Ren’s smile faded as she added, “He was gone the next day. I never found out what happened to him.” She'd always suspected he'd been sent to the army, or possibly the Chantry, but there had never been any way to find out. She hoped he'd found a happy life somewhere. “So Tamassran 144—“

“729554.”

“Right. Was she your first ... everything?”

“Yeah.” The Iron Bull snorted. “I was her last, though. I heard she turned herself in to the re-educators after me.”

“Were you that good?”

He laughed outright at that. “Flattering, but no. I think she was just tired of taking an endless string of fumbling young virgins who didn't know what they were doing. She ended up in charge of a cohort of rising warriors, if memory serves. Hopefully she liked it better.” The Iron Bull lifted his head a little to look at Ren's face. “This Jordy, was he your first everything?”

She shook her head. “No, that came later.” Ren sat up, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “His name was Brandt; he was my father's captain of the guard.” She tried not to picture his face. Poor Brandt. He had been her first in so many ways—he had taught her knife skills and combat skills on top of the more intimate lessons. When her father had arranged her marriage with Hector Pentaghast, Brandt had been the one to make the arrangements for her to run away and join Dooley's Raiders. He had given up his considerable future as her father's captain of the guard to join her ... but any happiness they might have found together was short-lived. Brandt had been killed in a raid only a couple of months after they had joined Dooley.

Ren looked down at her bare knees, remembering how that had hurt, how guilty she had felt, as though it were her fault. It had been her fault—if it weren't for her, he'd have been safe at the estate in Ostwick. At first it had been worse, because she'd thought of herself as having been broken-hearted, but Dooley and his lover Zadra had taken her under their wings, and had shown her that what she'd thought of as love was really gratitude and hero worship. It had been nothing like what she had seen them share with each other, nothing like what she felt now for the Iron Bu—oh, shit.

She kept her eyes down, sure that if she looked up he would be able to read on her face the sudden realization that she was in love with him. Had been in love with him for ... weeks? Possibly months.

The revelation created a panic inside Ren. This room, the presence of the Iron Bull, which she had longed for as a haven, suddenly seemed a cell, the walls pressing in around her.

“I should get back,” she said hastily, getting to her feet and looking for her leggings. “It's going to be light out soon and ... people might be looking for me ...”

The Iron Bull pushed himself up on an elbow, watching her hasty, graceless exit, trying to follow her thoughts. Was that why she had kept herself celibate for so long back at Haven, because she was still carrying a torch for this Brandt guy? She'd said “was”; probably he'd died and she thought her heart was buried with him. For all that he hadn't expected to have a future with her, thinking of her as still in love with some other, albeit probably dead, guy pissed him off.

Ren, unaware of his thoughts, hurried from his room and back to hers, glad not to run into anyone on the way. In her own room she leaned back against the door, closing her eyes, willing her heartrate to settle. How could she have been so stupid as to fall in love?

She slid down to the floor, burying her face in her hands. In her mind's eye, she saw Gawen's pale little hand reaching for hers; Brandt's dark eyes closing for the last time in pain; Dooley riddled with arrows and Zadra's white, anguished face as she was dragged away from his body. Ren had promised herself that she was never going to lose someone she loved again, not even if it meant that she never loved anyone for the rest of her life. She had failed herself, failed the memories she carried, and she didn't know what to do next. Her first instinct was to run away from the problem, but she couldn't do that. She was the Inquisitor—her duties, and the Iron Bull's importance to the greater cause of the Inquisition, were bigger than one woman's heart. But could she continue to be with him, knowing that any day he could be killed and she would have lost everything she cared about all over again—or could she end things, break things off, and continue to work with him, loving him as she did?

There was no answer to the tangle of her troubled thoughts, and eventually she dropped into a troubled sleep, still crouched there next to the door.


	33. Of Love and Loss

“Chief, you sure they didn't poison you in Orlais?” Krem was looking at him with a frown. “I've knocked you back three times today.”

“I'm going easy on you,” the Iron Bull snapped, although they both knew he was lying.

“Is it my birthday and no one told me?” Krem muttered, setting himself for another pass.

“Just shut up and lower your shoulder.”

Over Krem's shoulder, the Iron Bull saw both the first and last person he wanted to see: Ren, walking across the courtyard in their direction. After her hasty exit from his room in Val Royeaux, she'd kept her distance, and then some, on the way back, and he hadn't dared to go to her since they'd returned, not knowing what her reaction would be. Part of him was afraid she was about to call everything off, and at least if he was never alone with her she wouldn't have the opportunity. That same part was equally afraid of what he might say in response, and of looking into her eyes and seeing the same look of something very much like panic that had been there when she left the room in Val Royeaux.

The irony that they should have come to this pass just as he realized how deep his feelings for her really went was not lost on him. And he couldn't help wondering if she had somehow been able to tell the difference, and that was what had sent her scrambling away so fast.

Now she was approaching, her hands in her pockets and her head down, and in his concern for her and his attempt to parse her body language, he forgot all about Krem. The smaller man crashed into him, sending him thudding onto his ass on the hard ground.

“Good one,” he managed. It wasn't Krem's fault he was a moony-eyed idiot, after all.

“Yeah. Chief, you ought to get yourself looked at.” Krem glanced over his shoulder at Ren, who was clearly approaching them. “By a specialist,” he said in an unquestionably mocking tone, and the Iron Bull bit his tongue hard to avoid snapping at his lieutenant and confirming all his suspicions.

He got up, dusting himself off, as Krem picked up the practice shields. “Inquisitor,” he said to Ren as he passed her.

“Krem. Flissa was looking for you.”

“Oh? Well, I better go get found, then.” Krem's steps were light, almost jaunty, as he left the practice ground.

Lucky bastard. If only the Iron Bull felt light. Standing here with Ren, both of them tongue-tied and awkward as they had never been with each other, he felt anything but.

“Hey, boss.”

“Hey.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I just ... thought you should know I've scheduled the next expedition. To the Exalted Plains, leaving day after tomorrow.”

“I'll let Krem know. What time are we leaving?”

Ren scuffed the dirt with the toe of her boot. She still hadn't met his eye, her gaze wandering everywhere else but avoiding him entirely. “We aren't. I'm ... taking Blackwall and Cassandra.”

“Whoa, what now? We've been over this,” the Iron Bull said, seriously alarmed. Breaking things off between them, if that was what she wanted, was one thing; sidelining him was another thing entirely. “Where you go I go, remember?”

“Yeah. But—“ She looked away.

This was not the right place to be having this conversation, but the Iron Bull was afraid if they didn't have it now, she'd somehow manage to avoid ever having it at all, and while he could accept it if she ended things, he couldn't accept just letting things drift away into the Fade for no reason. He gestured to the corner behind the tavern, relatively private and screened from view by some bushes.

Once there, he turned to her. “What's going on?”

“I ... Nothing.”

He didn't bother dignifying that lie with a response. Folding his arms across his chest, he waited.

“Bull, I—“ She looked away from him, her teeth worrying at her lower lip in a way uncharacteristic of her.

The Iron Bull stepped closer to her, bending over her to speak low. “Hey. This is me, remember? Whatever it is, whatever—I did, you can tell me.” He felt ridiculous assuming he had done something—it was such a witless, lovesick thing to think. But how could he not? He'd thought they had experienced something unusual, something new, something … yes, special, and it seemed all it had done was bring up in her memories of an old love. Somehow he had screwed up his goal, of giving her what she needed, no doubt in the pursuit of his own needs, and that had led to all of this.

“It's ...” She shook her head. “It isn't you, Bull. I just ...”

Without thinking, he cupped her cheek in his hand. He hated to see her this obviously upset, for any reason. “Morvoren.”

She gasped softly at the touch, her lips parting.

Whatever was going on in her head, he couldn't help wishing it had come earlier, before he had learned to crave the sweet taste of her mouth, before he needed to kiss her again so badly. Because he couldn't stand here this close to her and not kiss her, especially not with her eyes darkening the way they were, like she wanted it as badly as he did. He bent that little bit further, meaning just to brush her lips with his, just to satisfy himself with a taste of her, but at the first touch of her mouth he forgot all his fine intentions.

So did she, it appeared, because with a little moan her mouth opened further for him, her hands coming up to splay across his chest as she responded to him with an eagerness that made him forget where they were. He lifted her in order to get closer, pressing her against the wall, kissing her with all the built-up hunger of the last few days.

Only the sound of someone coming to use the practice dummies on the other side of the bushes kept him from going further, from having her right there against the wall of the tavern, and from the dazed, longing look in her eyes, she wouldn't have complained.

The Iron Bull let her down, bracing his arms on the wall on either side of her head. “Let me come to you tonight.”

As the haze of passion cleared from her face, the anxiousness he had seen earlier returned, and he could tell she was considering saying no. He was damned well not going to beg, he told himself … no matter how much he wanted to.

At last Ren nodded. “But not tonight. Tomorrow. After dinner.”

“Good.” The Iron Bull pushed himself off the wall and left her there, trying not to wonder what had changed between them, trying to prepare himself to accept whatever she had to say to him.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren waited in the bushes behind the tavern until she thought the flush must have receded from her face and then walked toward the keep, deep in thought. She had no idea what she was going to do now; all the way back from Val Royeaux, she had told herself she needed to break things off with the Iron Bull, for his sake and for hers, before one of them got hurt. But actually saying as much to him ... she had barely managed to tell him she wasn't taking him to the Exalted Plains.

She could still feel the touch of his warm, firm lips, the heat of his massive body against her. Could she really give that up? Could she let him go, knowing he would be in someone else's arms before long? Ren had no illusions as to the Iron Bull's level of emotional commitment to their affair—he cared for her as a comrade, trusted her as a leader, enjoyed her as a sex partner, and liked her as a person, but he didn't love her. Why should he? He hadn't been raised to love.

And that knowledge left her torn—whether to continue things with him because she needed him, even knowing he didn't return her feelings, or to break things off, knowing eventually he would move on and she would have to live with that. Neither one seemed like an attractive option, and complicating matters was the undeniable truth that she feared her own heart as much as she feared losing him.

“Inquisitor! Inquisitor!”

The voice came from somewhere above her, and Ren squinted upward, at last finding Vivienne. The mage was leaning over the balcony of her quarters and waving in Ren's direction.

“Can you come up, my dear?”

“Be right there.” Ren couldn't remember the last time Vivienne had wanted to talk privately, but she didn't mind it this time; whatever Vivienne had to say, no doubt it would be a distraction from everything on Ren's mind.

Vivienne was waiting in her open doorway as Ren came up the stairs. In no time, Ren was seated on Vivienne's comfortable sofa, a delicate cup of tea in her hand, chatting lightly about everything that had transpired at Halamshiral and after, including the surprising news that the Chantry was considering Leliana and Cassandra as potential replacements for the Divine. Vivienne seemed to be urging that Ren consider her as a candidate, as well, and use whatever influence the Inquisition had in that pursuit, but Ren gently pushed that idea aside. She wasn't a member of the Chantry, wasn't a believer, and was more interested in finishing the Inquisition's mission than in losing any of her people to the search for a new Divine.

What she really wondered was why Vivienne had called her up here. All of this could have waited until later. And while she appreciated the distraction, there were a dozen other matters needing her attention, including Cullen having a crisis over his decision to stop taking lyrium and Cole insisting that someone perform a binding ritual on him to keep him from being taken over by a demon.

At last, Ren decided she couldn't wait any longer. “Is there something you need, Vivienne?”

“My, you are direct. I must remember that in the future. Not that there is anything wrong with directness, but ... it is not what I'm used to.” Vivienne looked down at her teacup. “I must ask you a favor.”

Ren blinked in surprise. “What do you need?”

“The heart of a snowy wyvern.”

“The what?”

“Heart of a snowy wyvern. It's for an alchemical potion. I understand you are going to the Exalted Plains?” At Ren's nod, Vivienne looked up, meeting her eyes squarely. “I would like to go with you. The wyvern may be found in the Fens there, and I ... need to be there. This is a task I cannot accomplish on my own, but one ... vital to someone ... very near to my heart.”

Ren had never heard Vivienne speak so forthrightly or with such emotion. “Of course. Are you—I'm sorry, I don't mean to be blunt, but you don't particularly enjoy roughing it. Would you prefer to have me bring you the heart?”

“No, my dear.” Vivienne blinked her lovely eyes as if to hide the sheen of tears in them. “This is something I must see through, at whatever cost to myself. If—I don't know of your past, but ... has there ever been anyone you cared about so deeply that you would have dared anything for their well-being?”

Gawen's pale little face came to Ren's mind. But she'd been so young, only thirteen—what had she known about anyone else's well-being at that age? She had thought she was doing the right thing for him, and ... Ren pushed that thought away. She hadn't made the right decisions for Brandt, either, and surely the course they were now on was more likely to be detrimental to the Iron Bull's well-being than beneficial. “No,” she said abruptly, standing up and putting her teacup down. “I can't say as there has. But I'll be happy to help you find your wyvern. Be ready to leave first thing day after tomorrow.”

“Of course. And thank you.” Vivienne walked Ren to the door, and stood watching as Ren hurried away down the stairs.

The Inquisition kept Ren busy the rest of the day, in addition to talking Cullen out of resuming his lyrium doses and convincing both Cassandra and Leliana to put off thoughts of the Chantry and the deliberations over the new Divine until Corypheus was dealt with. Cullen was exhausted by his struggles and seemed glad to have someone else take the decision out of his hands; both Cassandra and Leliana seemed somewhat relieved to be able to put off anything definite. Whether that was more to do with reluctance to take up the hat or their continued mourning for Divine Justinia, Ren wasn't sure.

After dinner, she avoided the Iron Bull's eye. He would have come up tonight if she'd encouraged him, but she wasn't ready. She still didn't know what she was going to do about him; the central dilemma remained as undecided as it had been all along. Instead, she wandered out of the keep into the warm night, thinking a walk along the ramparts might clear her mind. 

“Inquisitor.”

It was Blackwall's voice, the Grey Warden looming up out of the darkness. Ren turned to greet him.

“I don't suppose you'd like to get a drink?” he asked. “You look like you could use one, and Maker knows I could.”

She looked at him closely, but couldn't see an ulterior motive there, just ... weariness, it seemed. As long as this wasn't a date, she would quite like a drink. On the verge of saying yes, she considered the tavern and whose eyes—eye, really—would be on them if they went there. She might not know what she wanted to do about the Iron Bull, but sitting there drinking in the tavern with another man when she had told him not to come up tonight seemed just ... mean-spirited.

“Let me get a bottle from my quarters,” she said, “we'll go sit up on the ramparts.”

He nodded. “That sounds good. The tavern's a bit ... cheerful for me tonight.”

“Ditto.”

They sat, feet dangling high above the courtyard, drinking from a bottle of Legacy White Shear Ren had picked up in her travels. “What's got you drowning your sorrows tonight, Blackwall?”

“I was thinking ...” He glanced at her and then away. “When I was a boy, there were these urchins near our house who found a dog, a wretched little mongrel, and they strung it up. Do you know what I did?”

Ren would have bet a fair amount of coin that that wasn't what he had started off to say. “You stopped them, saved the dog?” It's what the Blackwall she knew would have done, although from his demeanor, she imagined the story wouldn't end that happily.

He shook his head. “I didn't do a damn thing.” Taking a long drink from the bottle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I just let it die.”

“You were just a boy.”

“Does that matter? A life is a life, no matter how old you are.”

Ren winced, thinking of Gawen. “Well, that's true enough.” She took the bottle from him.

Blackwall sighed. “We could make the world better. It's just ... easier to shut our eyes.”

“What if in trying to make it better, we make it worse instead? The best of intentions sometimes ...” She stopped, blinking away tears. How long had it been since she cried? A long time.

“Who was it, the person you mourn?” Blackwall asked softly.

“My baby brother. Only a year or so younger than I, but ... he'd never been healthy, always cosseted and protected to keep him safe. I was healthy as an ox, always had been, had the run of the kitchens and grounds because no one cared what I did, and he—envied me. So I took him out with me, snuck him out of the house, let him dip his toes in the ocean, try to swim.” Ren swallowed, seeing him so clearly in her mind's eye. “He took a chill, and he wasn't strong enough to fight it. I sat by his bedside as often as they would let me, trying to give him some of my strength, but ...”

“I'm sorry.”

“So am I. I thought I knew what was best for him, and ... I ended up getting him killed.” She snorted a little laugh, looking down over the Inquisition. “What's to stop me from leading the whole Inquisition to a fatal chill?”

“At least you tried.”

“Tell that to my father. He's never forgiven me.”

“Doesn't sound like you've ever forgiven yourself.”

“You're still upset with yourself over not saving a dog,” Ren snapped. “Don't preach at me.”

“If you knew—“ Blackwall said hoarsely.

“When I first met you, you were saving peasants from demons and outlaws. You're not a man who lets people suffer when he can help.”

“You have no idea what kind of man I've been. I ... don't deserve your trust. My lady—“ His voice broke, the look in his eyes saying everything she’d tried to avoid letting him tell her.

“Blackwall.” She tried not to shrink away from the sudden blazing intensity in his eyes. “Blackwall, I couldn't— I ... even if I felt the way you do, everyone I've ever lov—cared for has died. I'm no good for any man.”

His eyes held hers, the sincerity in them undeniable. “If you cared for me, my lady, I would dare any danger and count the cost more than worth it, whatever it might be.” There was a force in him, a determination, that she'd never seen before. “I know there is someone, I can see it in your face, and if he's worth your time, he'll feel the same.”

Ren thought suddenly of all the times the Iron Bull had sworn to stay by her side, no matter what it cost him; of the way he had stood in the opening of the Fade and waited for her, refusing to go without her. “Thank you, Blackwall,” she said softly. 

“Thank you, my lady.” He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly, before getting to his feet and leaving her there on the ramparts.


	34. The Doubts that Complicate Your Mind

Ren waited for the Iron Bull nervously. She had debated whether to keep her clothes on or not, which message she wanted to send. But in the end she had convinced herself that she wouldn't really know how this would work, now that she knew she loved him, if she didn't at least try to let things flow in the usual manner. So she left her clothes off. She also didn't wear the soft, warm blue robe he had gotten for her, preferring the sharper vulnerability of utter nakedness to the softer vulnerability of being covered with something he had given her.

As she heard his boots on her stairs, her heart pounded more heavily than it had in months, since they had first started this.

The Iron Bull was surprised to see her standing there naked. He had thought there was a good chance she would be completely clothed, that she would break things off right away and that would be it. Knowing that he would get to hold her one more time, even if it was possibly the last time, had his heart thudding in his chest loud enough that he was sure she must be able to hear it.

He came toward her, pulling the red scarf from his pocket. “Hold out your hands,” he commanded, his voice deeper than usual. He tied the scarf more tightly, wanting to make sure of her, wanting to keep her for his, and he tied the black scarf over her eyes more tightly as well. Not enough to hurt, but firmly, undeniably.

Then he drew her over to the bed, sitting down and pulling her against him, burying his face between her soft breasts. He rubbed his jaw against them, enjoying the red marks his beard made against her skin and her gasps of pleasure. Slowly, he drew his cheek down over her stomach, and then followed the same path with his tongue.

Ren was swaying toward him, expecting his tongue to continue lower, and was startled when he suddenly yanked her down onto the bed, on her stomach. Instinctively, sure of what was coming next, she lifted her hips, and was rewarded with his big hand smacking soundly across her rear. She gasped with the pain and the pleasure and the sheer familiarity, pressing her face into the blanket as she waited for the next strike.

The Iron Bull didn't make her wait long. He spanked her thoroughly, making sure every inch of her beautiful ass was reddened before he was done, savoring the sounds she made in response. Each slap was harder than usual. At first, he wasn't sure why there was an extra edge of aggression in everything he was doing to her tonight, but gradually he realized—he was giving her the chance to say katoh, for the first time ever, to decide that this was more than she had bargained for and break things off because she couldn't handle it.

But the plan was backfiring, because she wasn't saying it. As far as he could tell, she wasn't even thinking it. She was thrusting back to meet each crack of his palm against her skin, her gasps and cries like flames across his skin, so hot.

He flipped her over, knowing the fabric of the blanket had to be painful in contact with her inflamed skin, and lowered himself on top of her, kissing her hard. Beneath him, the Iron Bull felt her legs part, hitching up over his hips to hold him to her as best she could with her hands bound. Wriggling awkwardly out of his pants, he pressed himself against her, heat on heat, and she whimpered at the friction.

Ren moved her hips restlessly, trying to angle herself so that he would slip inside her, where she ached to have him. She hadn't missed the savagery in him tonight, and she wouldn't have been surprised to know that he was trying to make her say katoh. But she didn't want him to stop; she wanted more of him, and she tried to tell him so with every part of her body that was free of restraints.

Finally neither of them could wait any longer. He found her center and thrust deeply inside, hard and fast, over and over, almost daring her to call it off. But Ren was with him all the way, matching him thrust for thrust as best she could.

They climaxed together, lying there on the bed panting in the aftermath. The Iron Bull unwound the scarves from her eyes and wrists. He wanted to press kisses across her face, to stroke her hair, to tell her something of what she made him feel ... but even if she understood the concept of kadan, he wasn't that for her. He was her friend, her companion, her confidante, but her heart didn't lie with him. 

He sat up on the side of the bed, wondering what now. Under normal circumstances they'd have talked, had something to drink, and maybe gone for another round a little bit later before he tucked her into bed and left. But tonight ... he wasn't sure what they had to talk about or if he wanted to hear it.

Ren lay on her side, looking at his broad back. She should talk to him, tell him what she was thinking ... except she didn't know what she was thinking. She knew she didn't want this to end, but it seemed like maybe he did; there was something in his silence that said volumes, but it seemed to be in another language, because she couldn’t read him at all. Maybe it would only be fair to let it end, to let him get back to the life he had before he started up with her.

Idly, as she thought, her hand reached out to touch the small of his back, working upward toward his shoulders, enjoying the texture of his warm, smooth skin and the occasional roughness of a scar. Ren got up on her knees, adding her other hand, exploring, putting off any further thinking. The Iron Bull didn't move, but she could feel the change in his breathing as it sped up in response to her touch. He enjoyed this, being with her, she knew he did; his reactions were too instant, too instinctual, to be fake.

“Iron Bull?”

He stiffened. Was this it, then? he wondered. Was this the moment? Her touch didn't seem to indicate breaking things off, but sometimes it was hard to tell what would set a person to make such a decision. “Mm?” he asked noncommittally. What she asked surprised him, though.

“Can I touch your horns?” She never had, and she was curious about what they would feel like.

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

She ran her hands across them slowly, finding them softer than she had imagined, like old wood, almost. “Can you feel this?”

“Kind of.” He shrugged. “Mostly they just itch. Sometimes they ache a little.”

Ren scratched lightly at one, and the Iron Bull sighed.

“Yeah, that's a good spot.”

“You ever get them caught on things?”

“Nah, not really. When they first grew in sometimes, but not for a long time.”

Ren stroked the horns lightly, wondering what it would be like to wear something so heavy and unyielding on her head all the time. “I've never seen you use them in combat.”

The Iron Bull shook his head. “Tried it a couple of times, early on, but going horns down to gore someone messes with your field of vision. Besides, then you're stuck with some guy impaled on your horn, kicking and screaming. Loud, painful, awkward.”

“Do you ever get hit in the horns?”

He laughed. “Not anymore. Most of the people I fight these days are shorter than I am, and they don't really think about attacking the horns. On Seheron, when we fought Tal-Vashoth, it happened more. It's kind of a thing,” he explained. “Hitting someone in the horns, cutting off a piece, it's a coup. For a Tal-Vashoth to come away from a battle with a piece of someone's horn is a big feather in their cap. They tend to cut theirs off, so no one can do the same to them.”

Without thinking, Ren asked curiously, “Would you ever cut yours off?” She was imagining what it must be like never to be able to sleep on his side, or to have to take care when going through doorways, but mostly she just wondered if it had ever crossed his mind.

The Iron Bull stiffened, the question striking him to the heart. Was that what she wanted, then, some kind of oversized, hornless human? For a single frozen moment, he thought he might have misjudged her completely, and out of that sudden fear he said, “What the fuck kind of question is that?”

Ren could practically feel the change in the air, something dangerous suddenly between them. She took her hands off him, climbing off the bed on the other side to put it between them. “It was just a question.”

“Yeah? Was it? Just happened to be a question about another piece of who I am that you don't like.” He stood up, too, facing her across the bed.

“That isn't true! I've never said a word about your horns.”

“No, you haven't. Funny how that works, isn't it, since I'm the only person you know who has them, and they've never once come up?”

Well, when he put it like that, it did sound kind of bad. Ren said guiltily, “I hadn't thought about it that way. They're just ... part of you.”

“A part you wish you could change, right?” He wasn’t sure where all this was coming from, but he was angry, and confused, as much by himself as by her, and if it was going to be over it might as well end decisively.

“No! That's not what I meant!”

“You expect me to believe that, after the way you carried on about finally getting me into a shirt?”

“What?” Ren frowned. “Oh, you mean about the jacket? Well, yeah, 'cause it looked damn good. Not that you don't anyway.”

“You're not a very good liar.”

“That's because I'm not lying! Maybe if I'd grown up being trained to lie, I could make people think I—“ She caught herself, not wanting to let him know how much she wished he loved her, the way she did him. Given this conversation, that was the last thing she needed.

“I never lied to you,” the Iron Bull said. “Maybe you lied to yourself; maybe you weren't as ready for something like this as you thought.”

“Maybe not.” Ren turned away, reaching for a shirt and pulling it on over her head, anything to avoid feeling so suddenly exposed in front of him.

“You thought when I was named Tal-Vashoth, you could make me into what you wanted.” He didn't believe what he was saying about her—did he? He didn't know anymore. All he knew was that he had rested his heart in her, and she didn't return that feeling, and maybe this was the reason. Or maybe he just needed a reason, any reason, to keep from getting any deeper into this.

“Me? I never tried to change you!” Ren cried, stung by the unfairness. “Maybe you were the one who wanted something you aren't finding here. Maybe I'm too ... too much of a human, too much of a southerner. Our people are enemies, after all, aren't they?”

“Strangers,” he agreed, painfully. They stood there looking at each other across the bed, the silence hanging heavily in the room. “So ... do you want to stop?”

Ren pressed her lips together. Not like this, no. Never like this. “I didn't say the word, did I?” 

“Which word?”

“Oh, no, you don't.” She shook her head. “You're not trapping me into saying it to make things easier for you. If you want to stop, you say it.”

The Iron Bull opened his mouth, the word on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't. Why wouldn’t she? he wondered in frustration. 

“Then ... you don't want to stop?” Ren asked, hesitantly.

“Whatever you want, boss.” It had to be her call. Had to be.

“Don't do that!” Ren shouted at him. She came around the corner of the bed, looking up at him, trying to read his face, but it was closed to her. “Can you just once not hide behind that Qunari stoicism crap and actually pretend to give a damn?”

“No.” It was the simple truth. He was who he was—to admit to what he wanted from her was to deny who he had been trained to be, to be something new, and he ... couldn't. Not when he knew she didn't feel the same way.

Ren was goaded into a rage by his absolute immovability. “Fuck you!” she shouted at him.

His lip curled in a deliberately insolent grin. “Whenever you're ready.”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” She took a breath, trying to calm herself. “Look, I thought this was about what I needed; isn't that what you said?”

“It is.”

“Well, this time I'm deciding what I need—and what I need is to know that you're here because this is important to you, and not just because ... you get off on banging the Inquisitor, or because you're doing me a favor.” Maybe if he would just say, one way or the other, she would know what to do. Because she couldn't bear to let him go, but she couldn't bear to have him stay if his ... yes, if at least part of his heart wasn't in it.

The Iron Bull held himself very still and very quiet. If she didn't know what this meant to him, then all the more reason to end it, he told himself, before she found out and laughed at him or, worse, pitied him the way she pitied Blackwall. But he wasn’t going to say all that, not knowing that she was still in love with some other guy.

Ren waited, but it was clear there wasn't going to be an answer. “Just get out,” she said wearily.

“Is that really what you want?” he asked, his voice very soft.

“Yes.” Maker, could she really do this, end things this way? Before she could stop herself, she added, “Tonight it is. When I get back from the Exalted Plains it might be a different story.”

He looked at her for a minute, his face unreadable, his eye dark and shuttered, then he turned and started down the stairs.

“And don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out,” Ren shouted after him. “I'd hate to have to replace it.”

She held her breath, waiting to see if it would slam, but it closed very, very quietly, and she sank down onto the floor, drawing her knees up and dropping her head onto them, wanting to cry but knowing she wouldn't be able to, the tears dammed up somewhere between the lump in her throat and the burning ache in her chest.

On the other side of the door, the Iron Bull blinked against the sting of tears behind his eye, his empty socket aching. He couldn't remember the last time he was even tempted to cry. The enormity of what he had just walked out on struck him like a blow to the chest and he really needed to hit something. Right now.


	35. With a Little Help

It was harder to be out without the Iron Bull than Ren had expected. Or maybe just as hard as she'd thought it would be. They had had to leave without Blackwall, because at the last minute he couldn't be found. Ren had been concerned, had set Leliana to find him, but hadn't been able to delay the trip. Fortunately Dorian had appeared at just the right time—or the wrong one, depending on who you asked—and had agreed to come along instead.

Which left Ren doing her fighting in front with Cassandra, and Vivienne and Dorian in back. It was a far cry from what Ren was used to. Cassandra was an extremely good fighter, but she didn't have the Iron Bull's physical presence on the battlefield, drawing the focus of their foes, which meant Ren couldn't fight from the shadows as much as she was used to doing. It had taken some getting used to.

They appeared to be just about done on the Plains, now, though. They were making a hasty camp along the river, not far from the Dalish clan who dwelled there. Vivienne was doing something in her tent with the heart of the snowy wyvern, and Cassandra was practicing forms. Dorian had been trying to perfect some new spell he had picked up from a book in Skyhold’s library. Ren decided to go fishing, see if she could catch dinner. But instead of casting her bait into the water, she ended up just taking a stroll, listening to the rush of the river going by. Being near water always made her feel better.

Except for today, because on top of the rush of the water came a familiar smell—spindleweed. It grew thickly all along the edge of the river, and it made her homesick for the estate outside Ostwick ... and it made her think of the Iron Bull.

She reached down and plucked a plant from the ground, bringing it to her nose. Maybe it should have been a clue as to how far her feelings had gone when the same scent began to symbolize both home and the Iron Bull. But of course, by that point it had been too late anyway. Ren wondered if she could have stopped it if she'd seen it coming, chosen someone else to warm her bed and kept the Iron Bull as just a companion?

But of course, she'd never wanted him as just as a companion—she'd been attracted to him from the start. And she'd thought of him as safe, as someone who wouldn't ask more than she was prepared to give. She had never thought that she might be the one asking for the moon and the stars.

It had never really occurred to Ren to think about what she wanted. It seemed to her, looking back at it, that her life had bounced from one place to another largely under the onus of other people's wishes for her, rather than her wishes for herself. Her mother's death when she was a baby had left her to grow up largely unattended; Gawen's death when she was thirteen had in its turn put an end to that by bringing her father's anger and disappointment down on her head. Brandt's desire for her led him to teach her how to fight in order to get close to her; the arranged marriage to Hector Pentaghast gave rise to Brandt's bright idea that they should run away and be mercenaries. Brandt's death and later Dooley's death and her arrest put her back in her father's study facing his threats, which sent her to the Conclave. The Conclave blew up, which landed her in Haven, and then Corypheus came after her and the Anchor, which put her firmly in the Inquisitor's seat. In all of that, Ren had been largely content to go where she was sent. As far as she could tell, the only decisions she had ever truly made for herself were her refusal to submit to either of her arranged marriages, and her pursuit of the Iron Bull as a bed partner. So perhaps she shouldn't be so surprised that her feelings for the Iron Bull ran as deeply as they did. She had wanted him enough to go after him, after all, and that was more than she had ever done for a man, or for anything, before.

But what did it matter what she wanted now? She was the Inquisitor, bound to the Inquisition until Corypheus was defeated—or she died, whichever came first—and the Iron Bull was Qunari born and Ben-Hassrath bred, and falling in love was the last thing either of those pieces of his background left room for. And even if somehow he did, look at what had happened to Brandt. And Gawen. And her mother. And Dooley. Sooner or later she'd be bound to get the Iron Bull killed, too.

Ren ripped a piece off the spindleweed plant she held in her hands, dropping it into the water and watching it float away. Then another. And another.

“I thought you liked those.”

She jumped, not having heard Dorian coming up behind her.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.”

“I was just ... thinking.”

“So I've noticed. You've been very quiet.” He looked at her, his grey eyes serious on hers. “Would you like to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Nothing to talk about, really.”

“No? Because I can't help but notice that you appear to have had a rather large Qunari-shaped attachment removed from your side, and I thought perhaps there was trouble in paradise.”

Ren looked at him. “I didn't know you knew.”

He laughed. “My dear, you are not nearly as subtle as you think you are. There are the jokes, the looks, the fighting style ... not to mention that this is literally the first time you have ever left Skyhold without him.”

“Well, when you put it that way ...” Ren frowned. “Does everyone know?”

Dorian shook his head. “Strangely, they don't seem to. Perhaps they don't spend as much time with you as I do, or don't pay attention to what's going on around them. It's hard to say which.”

“Hm.” Ren nodded, leaning back against a handy rock and continuing to shred the spindleweed.

“Do I take it from the way you're committing plant homicide that all is not rosy in the garden of love?”

Something about the kindness in his voice, or the phrasing, or just the relief of having someone to talk to shattered the dam inside Ren, and she burst into tears.

“Apparently not, then,” Dorian said.

She put up a hand to keep him at bay. “I'm sorry. I'll be fine in a minute. Just ...” The last thing she wanted right now was sympathy, or she'd never be able to stop crying.

Dorian waited, throwing small pebbles into the water, while she got herself under control.

Ren scrubbed the back of her hand over her face, trying to wipe away the traces of the tears. “That's been coming, but ... I've never been a good crier.”

“I'm not certain there is such a thing.” Dorian looked at her, hesitating, then said, “From that reaction, I'm guessing that the current separation wasn't your idea?”

“No, it was. Well, sort of. I mean ... I don't know.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Ren sighed, looking down the river to where it disappeared in the distance. “I don't know what to say, Dorian. It was supposed to be just sex. It’s ... it's not that any longer, at least, not for me, but his whole life has been so different and—what?” she asked, breaking off as Dorian started to laugh.

“I am sorry, my dear, but—you really think what's between you is just sex for him?”

“Um ... yes?”

He shook his head. “Did you see him in the Fade, Ren? You were the only thing holding him together in there—but he would have stayed there with you rather than leave it without you.”

“I know he would have, and I know there's a certain ... loyalty, a friendship ...”

Dorian was studying her face closely. “You haven't much experience in matters of the heart, do you, my dear?”

Ren flushed. “Not really.”

“Nor do I, to be honest with you. In Tevinter, a relationship between two men is tolerated only if it's kept behind closed doors, never spoken about. Not precisely conducive to real emotion.”

“What about in Skyhold? I like to think we're open to whatever makes people happy.” Ren looked at him with concern, and was surprised to see a red flush stealing up Dorian's neck. “Ah, so there is someone.”

“Perhaps.”

“Good. I'm glad.”

“I ... am as well, although it's not something I care to be open about at the moment. But we were talking about you, and about the Iron Bull.”

Ren shook her head. “I don't think there's anything to talk about. I mean, I don't want to end things, but I can't ...” She let the words trail off, uncomfortable sharing her emotion even with Dorian.

“Did you ever ask him?”

“What, if it was just sex for him? Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.” She frowned. “He did that stoic Qunari thing where he wouldn't talk.”

Dorian smiled. “And that wasn't a hint? The Iron Bull has always been open with me, and he and I are merely friends, not the inseparable companions that you and he are. He does, however, frequently duck questions he would prefer not to answer by doing 'that stoic Qunari thing'.” His eyes rested on her with sympathy and affection. “If you asked him that question and he was there only for the sex, he wouldn't have hesitated to say so. I would have to imagine that not answering meant the answer was too close to his heart to admit.”

Ren's own heart leaped at the thought. Dorian was right; maybe she just couldn’t see it for the fog of confusion surrounding her own feelings. But ... that didn't make it a good idea.

“It's not just that, though. I'm ... not very good luck.”

He frowned, his grey eyes narrowing. “What can you possibly mean by that?”

“People who ... care about me have a tendency to ... die.”

“Oh, is that all?” Dorian was smiling, but gently. “My dear girl, you have worked yourself up until all you can see is doom and gloom—and who can blame you? It's been all around us for months, and shows no sign of letting up. No surprise that you feel it hanging over your head in every aspect of your life.” He shook his head. “But if you are pulling away from the Iron Bull out of concern for his health and safety, you need to stop and take a moment to consider who you're thinking of. He wouldn't thank you for pushing him away for that reason, and he, of all people, can handle whatever comes.” He held up a hand when Ren would have interrupted. “Yes, it's true, he's no more invulnerable than the rest of us ... but he's capable of handling almost anything that can be thrown at him, and that includes red-headed Inquisitors.”

Ren scuffed the toe of her shoe in the dirt, not daring to look up at him. He was right; she was being overwrought. Hysterical, even, to think that somehow she was a curse on the people who loved her. It had just been such a surprise to uncover those feelings in herself when she hadn't expected them, it had thrown her off-balance and sent her spinning. “You really think so?”

“Where has the brave—possibly crazy, certainly foolhardy—Inquisitor we've all come to care about gone? I would never have imagined that such a thing as love could take you down from the inside.”

“No. Neither would I.”

“You will think on what I said, and when we get back to Skyhold, you will make this right with him?”

He was challenging her, daring her, with that steady gaze, full of expectations, and Ren felt new energy and determination surging through her. “Yes. Yes, I will. Thank you, Dorian.”

“My pleasure as always. I adore dazzling people with my intelligence and insight almost as much as I do dazzling them with my good looks and charm.”  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull paced the battlements again. He had done it so often in the days since she'd left that he could practically see his footsteps worn into the stones.

“Tiny, I have to say, you're almost too far gone to be entertaining.”

He turned around to see Varric perched on the edge of the wall. “What?” he snapped.

Varric looked at him for a moment, not at all daunted by the menacing tone of his voice, then shook his head sadly. “Yeah, time was, you'd have had me falling off this wall just to get away from you.”

“Did I ask you, Varric?”

“No, but that's the beauty of me. I don't need to be asked.”

The Iron Bull turned back toward the road, glaring at its persistent emptiness. “How do you all stand this?” he asked. “This never-ending waiting around for the Inquisitor to come back?”

“Most of us manage to pass the time quite nicely. Cards, books, various games of chance. Of course, when you're used to having most of your time filled by the Inquisitor ...”

A smile crossed over the Iron Bull's face. Used to spending most of his time filling the Inquisitor, more like it. Then he remembered that that may have come to an end, and the smile vanished before it had time to settle, chased away by a heavy sigh.

“What did you do?” The question was asked in a much quieter, more serious tone, and the Iron Bull winced at the careful measuring of it.

“Nothing.”

“You must have done something. She's never left you behind before. She didn't even go get you when she found out Blackwall was missing.”

“Where did he go, anyway?” the Iron Bull asked. There had been no sign of the Grey Warden since Ren had left.

Varric shrugged. “I don't know. I don't think Nightingale does, either, which means either he really didn't want to be found—or someone else really didn't want him to be found.”

The Iron Bull frowned. He hadn't considered the possibility of Blackwall having met with foul play. While they weren't exactly friends, Blackwall was a good fighter, a good man to have at your back. “I'll talk to Leliana later and see if my contacts can help. The Ben-Hassrath shut down most of my channels of information, but not all.”

“She'd appreciate that. Now ... what'd you do to Rusty?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Oh, man, do I have to kick your ass?” Varric groaned. “That's so inconvenient.”

The Iron Bull grinned at the mental image of Varric trying to beat him up. Then again, Bianca was a pretty impressive weapon; she might have some hidden surprises that could help Varric with the size and strength difference. But it might help to talk to someone. He was having no luck with the endless monologues in his head.

He sat down on the wall next to Varric. “I really don't know what happened,” he said. “One minute we were good—better than good,” he said heavily, thinking of that night in Val Royeaux. “Then ... something freaked her out.”

“I take it she didn't say what.”

“No.”

“And you didn't ask.”

“Well ... no.”

“Right. Because of course you didn't.” Varric muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath.

From a perch atop the guardhouse, high above them, they heard Cole's voice suddenly floating down. “Cold hands reaching from the past. They pull her back into darkness.”

“What's that, kid?” Varric called up, and Cole climbed down, surprisingly nimbly for such a gangly person.

The Iron Bull found Cole creepy, but he had come to feel a strange affection for the boy, as well. Cole suffered along with the pain of every soul he met, but he always tried to do something to make the pain better, which was more than most people could say.

Cole frowned at him. “She's not a demon, The Iron Bull.”

“No,” he growled. “She isn't.” The Iron Bull got up off the wall and paced across the battlement to look down at the road again. If he didn't need to stay here and watch for her—and if he didn't know they would both follow him—he'd take off and leave these two meddlers far behind. Or maybe he wouldn't. Part of him was tired of mulling over this thing with Ren and what he should do and why she had suddenly rushed out of his room just when— Heat shivered through him at the memory of kissing her beautiful mouth. Could he really just ... stop? Never feel that again?

Behind him, he heard Varric say, “Hey, Kid, you got some insight into what's got Tiny left behind here all tied up in knots?”

Cole, never one to be led into topics, frowned. “Why do you call him Tiny, Varric? He's very big.”

“Well, that's why,” Varric said. At Cole's look of confusion, the dwarf laughed. “Don't worry about it. You'll figure it out someday.”

“The women in the tavern don't think he's tiny. Are you, The Iron Bull?” Cole asked.

“I suppose that's a matter of opinion.” He was fucking blushing, being questioned by this pale skinny boy-man-spirit thing.

“No, tell him, Tiny,” Varric said, still laughing. The Iron Bull half hoped the dwarf would fall off the wall.

Cole was staring at him now, looking as though he was listening.

“What's up, kid?” the Iron Bull asked him.

Slowly, as though it was coming to him as he spoke, Cole said, “She hides from the name her mother gave a girl who never was, and from the name her father gave a girl who never wanted to be.”

The Iron Bull narrowed his eyes. He wasn't sure what the second part meant, but the first part ... Morvoren must have been the name her mother gave her. He'd never heard anyone else use it, or even acknowledge that they knew Ren wasn't her whole name. Maybe they didn't. But if she hid from it—she had never objected to him using it, never even blinked.

What he wouldn't have given in this moment to be able to see people's feelings the way Cole did.

“Do you know what that means?” Varric asked him.

“Part of it. But ...”

Cole interrupted him. “It's different when you use it. Her name feels safe in your mouth.”

The Iron Bull stared at the kid. Was that what it was? It had been his goal all along for her to feel safe with him; to know that the identity she hid even from herself was safe in his hands ... that had to mean she felt something for him, didn't it, beyond companionship?

They were both watching him now, expecting ... he didn't know what. The assholes. “I'll talk to her, all right?” he roared at them. “If she ever fucking gets back.”

He resumed pacing the battlements, more consumed by his worry for her and his longing for her than he had been before. Behind him Varric hopped down from the wall, dusting off the seat of his pants. “Come on, Kid, let's go get something to eat.”

“All right. Varric?”

“Yeah?”

“The druffalo was tired; he was ready. He won't mind being eaten.”

“Well, isn't that good to know.”


	36. To Dive into Your Ocean

Ren dropped the rucksack of her personal items on the bed, collapsing next to it with a sigh. The rest of the baggage was being unloaded downstairs by the pages and stableboys. Usually she liked to wait and help and try to go through things as they were unloaded, but it was so late tonight that she just didn't have it in her. And a rare downpour was soaking Skyhold; the first thing she had done on reaching her quarters was to throw the doors open so the sound and smell of the rain would blow through. She'd given orders that the stableboys were to get some hot stew and tea after they were done unloading the horses—it seemed the least she could do for them.

She should probably get up and unpack her rucksack, but she lacked the motivation. All she wanted to do was get into her warm, dry robe and curl up in front of the fire with a book.

Well, that was her second choice, anyway. She'd have preferred to be with the Iron Bull, but there was no time tonight to straighten out that mess.

Ren was wrapping the blue robe around herself when she heard the door to the main hall of the keep close far below her. Her heart pounded as she stood frozen, waiting until she could hear the footsteps. They were heavy, firm ... familiar.

It had to mean something that he was coming up now, less than an hour after she'd returned to Skyhold, didn't it? She waited in the middle of the room, her eyes fixed on the top of the stairs.

The Iron Bull was having trouble breathing as he climbed the last few steps. He wanted to see her, touch her so badly he could practically taste her on his tongue; but it was by no means certain that she wanted him up here at all, much less so soon after she'd returned home.

As his head cleared the top of the half wall, he found her watching him, her eyes wide and blue, her hand clutching the collar of the robe he had given her. It had to be a good sign that she was wearing it, didn't it?

Ren only just barely managed to restrain herself from throwing herself into his arms as soon as he had reached the top of the stairs. They stood there for long heartbeats, just looking at each other, no sound in the room but the wind and the rain.

At last, Ren managed to croak, “You're here.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you ... staying?”

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked, the words out before he could think whether they were the right ones or not.

“Maker, yes!” Her words came as spontaneously as his had. She thought she could see a tension ease in his shoulders. If only it were that easy ... but she still hadn't had an answer to what she'd asked him. She said, quickly, “But—I need to know if you—“ Words failed her, and she finished, with great feeling, “I need to know, Bull.”

“Why?” It wasn't a fair question; she deserved the answer. But he wasn't sure if he could give it to her.

Well, that put things firmly on her side of the board, didn't it? Ren had thought long and hard all through their detour to the Emerald Graves and their journey home to Skyhold what she would say in this situation, how much she would tell him about her feelings, but now, standing here in front of him as she was, all her carefully practiced words went straight out of her head, leaving her flailing for the right ones. “Because I ... because ... because this has come to mean something to me. You have come to mean something to me. And I don't want to stop, but I don't think I can continue if you—if this doesn't mean something to you, too.”

Unable to tear his eye from her face, he took a step toward her, but it was clear that she needed words, not actions. There was still a barrier to speech somewhere inside him, but she had been brave in going first, in admitting to what they had together being more than sex, and could he be less so? Not and be fair to her.

The Iron Bull cleared his throat. “Look,” he said gruffly, “I told you before: This is where I want to be.”

“I know you did,” she said in a small voice. “I thought you meant ... the Inquisition. Skyhold.”

“I did. But I also meant here. With you. And yeah, you know I get off on knowing you're walking around Skyhold with my handprint on your ass—but that's not because you're the Inquisitor. It's because you're you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her blue eyes wide and vulnerable—a woman's vulnerability this time, not a young girl's—and then she tugged at the belt of her robe, letting it fall, baring her muscular body to him.

He closed the distance between them swiftly, his hands on either side of her neck, his thumbs under her chin lifting her face toward him. “Morvoren.” It was a question, a plea, really, and she nodded, unable to speak.

Their mouths met, softly at first, and then with a feverish need. The Iron Bull pulled her against him, his hands on her gorgeous ass. Bit by bit, he inched her backward until she was pressed up against the wall next to the door. Hastily, kissing her all the while, he stripped off his clothes. His hands found her body again, but before he could lift her up for a better angle she pushed at his chest, moving them out onto the balcony and into the rain. Breaking the kiss, Ren tilted her head back and let the rain fall on her face.

The Iron Bull watched her, content with that for the moment. There was something free about her, a happiness in her, that he'd never seen before, as she stood here naked on her balcony in the rain. Then her mouth was on his chest, tracing the paths of the water rolling down from his shoulders, and the heat of it was like lightning racing along his skin, all bright fire. Ren dragged his head down to her, whispering roughly in his ear, “On the railing. Like you promised.”

Had he promised that? Right now, he didn't care if he had—he'd have done a lot more than that for her if she'd asked. The Iron Bull lifted her, carrying her to the railing.

Ren leaned back against the strength of his arms, the rain dripping off his horns and shoulders onto her. She'd had the presence of mind to make sure it was the mountain-facing balcony, not the Skyhold-facing balcony, but right now she wouldn't have cared if all of the Inquisition, and her family, too, were standing down there watching her. She wrapped her legs as far around his waist as they would go, writhing against the fingers that were stroking her, stretching her, readying her.

She didn't need much, and soon he was seated as deeply inside her as he could get, holding her there on the rail with his great strength, his hips driving forward and surging back in firm strokes like waves in a heavy sea. Ren could almost smell the ocean in the damp salt and smoke of his skin against her. She was dizzy with sensation, clinging to him with all she had, as he swept her farther and farther out until the great wave crashed over her head. The Iron Bull thrust a few more times and, throwing his head back so the rain fell full on his face, shouted with his own peak as she clung to him.

He stepped back from the railing, lifting her in his arms, bending his head to kiss her as he carried her back inside. Then he set her down next to the bed. Taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he said, “Stay here.”

As he fetched a towel from her bathroom, he thought they would have to revisit the rules at some point. Because this was no longer solely about what she needed—it was wants and needs and desires all tangled up in each other. She may not have rested her heart in him the way he had his in her, but it was a start. Maybe he could make her understand what kadan truly meant, become that for her given time.

Ren waited where he left her, wondering for her own part what became of the rules now. Was this still all about her needs? She didn't know enough about the future or what she wanted from it to ask any more from him than he had already yielded. He was here now, and that was everything she needed.

He toweled her off, then his hands followed the path of the towel, stroking her skin, touching her everywhere to reassure himself that she had returned in one piece, and by the time he was done with that they were both more than ready again. They tumbled to the bed together, wrestling for dominance. The Iron Bull let Ren ride to her pleasure on top of him, then he rolled her over and took his time with her, bringing her up again so they came together.

Ren tucked her face into his shoulder, feeling her heartbeat begin to slow as they lay there together. Beneath her, the Iron Bull shifted, and she threw her arm and leg over him hastily. “Don't go! Not yet,” she added.

The Iron Bull had been reaching for the blankets, knowing that she tended to get cold with the doors open, especially since her hair was still damp from the rain. He lay back now, though, his arm tightening around her. He was glad she had added “not yet”, because while he wanted to stay all night with her—all night, all week, all month ... as long as he could be alone with her—he wasn't ready to share this with other people yet. It was too raw with emotion, this tentative step they had taken away from what they had been into something ... else that neither of them seemed quite ready to define.

Instead of what he was thinking, though, he said, “You want to go again?”

Ren chuckled. “Maybe later.” She rubbed her leg up and down against his. “Iron Bull,” she said after a few minutes.

“What?”

“Why do you call me that?”

He was surprised by the question, but not surprised. Cole had all but predicted that it would come up. “Morvoren? It's your name.”

“No one calls me that. They haven't in all my memory.”

“It suits you.”

She propped herself up on an elbow and frowned at him. “I've never thought so.”

“Your mother must have,” he said, then caught himself. It wasn't really fair to use what Cole had said in conversation with her. “I mean, she must have named you, right?”

Ren nodded. “She did. But then she died. I was only about a year and a half—she died giving birth to my younger brother, Gawen—so I don't remember her at all. My father called me Alys, my middle name, because he said that was more suitable, but I never felt like an Alys. I asked him about ... my name once, and he said something about my mother's foolish romanticism.”

“Nice guy.”

“Not really.” She looked away.

Remembering what else Cole had said, the Iron Bull lifted his head to look at her more clearly. “Do you mind my using it?”

“No, I suppose not. It sounds ... different when you say it, like it belongs to me for the first time.”

“Good.” He stroked her hair back from her face. There were shadows under her eyes that he hadn't seen before. “You look tired.”

“I am tired.” She frowned at him. “You look tired, too. Didn't you sleep while I was gone? Too busy partying, no doubt.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her about waiting here for her, about the vivid images of her dead or injured that had haunted his dreams, about pacing the battlements long into the night, occasionally sitting in Cullen's office for a drink when the Commander couldn't sleep, either, each communing with their own shadows. But he couldn't tell her that; it was too much, too revealing. Instead, he said, “We almost had a crisis with the kid.”

“Cole?” Ren stilled, waiting for the bad news. She knew the Iron Bull and Varric cared greatly about the spirit-boy, but she still wasn't sure she trusted him.

“Yeah. Solas tried to do that binding ritual or whatever it was with the amulet, but it didn't take. Something was in the way, I guess? So Cole dragged us all down to the Hinterlands chasing after the Templar who locked the real Cole up and forgot him. Varric let him dry-fire Bianca at the guy, and now Cole is ... human? I don't know. I don't get it. But he's happier, and that I get.”

Ren guessed that must be better, then. Cole happier and more human was probably a good thing, overall, and she trusted the Iron Bull's judgement. “Wait—Varric let someone else fire Bianca?”

“Yeah, I thought it was weird, too. Varric's taken the kid under his wing, though. He's giving him person lessons.”

“That's got to be interesting.”

The Iron Bull chuckled. “Oh, yeah. So that's what happened here. How were the Exalted Plains?”

“Something less than exalted.” Ren sighed. “They weren't bad, though, and I think we're mostly finished there. On the way back, though, we detoured to the Emerald Graves, and that was ... wearying.”

“Why?”

“Giants.”

The Iron Bull sat up fully, scowling at her. “You fought a fucking giant without me?”

“No.” Ren grimaced. “We fought five.”

“Five?” 

“They just kept coming. The first one was by itself—himself? I’m never sure. Then three at once, who were fighting some Red Templars, and we ended up in the middle of that. And then, just when I thought we had the last one, Vivienne saw one more giant standing off by himself—not even paying attention to us—and decided to shoot him with lightning.” Ren groaned. “I wanted to shoot her with lightning. I think Dorian may have, accidentally on purpose.”

The Iron Bull was torn between concern for her safety and bitter envy. “I like fighting giants,” he muttered.

“I know you do. Trust me, I really, really wished you were there. Cassandra's very good, but she isn't you.”

“Well, that's something, at least,” he grumbled. “You owe me a giant, though. Maybe two.”

Ren laughed. “Done. Gladly.” She straddled his lap, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. The Iron Bull wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her back. Neither of them were ready for another round quite yet, though, and when the kiss ended she slid down to rest against him, her head against his chest listening to the steady thump of his heart. Where was there another giant to kill, she wondered. And then she thought of it—what he really wanted, what she could do for him that would be special. To the Void with giants. She would take him to kill a dragon. Ren could feel excitement surge in her veins just thinking about it, the two of them and a dragon, taking it down together.

Planning the expedition in her head, she lay there warm and comfortable in his arms until he yawned loudly. “Much as I hate to say this, if I stay here, I'm gonna go to sleep.”

Ren rested her chin on her folded arms, looking up at him. “I wish you could.”

“Me, too.” He thought about leaving it there, but so much of what had happened between them had been affected by not telling each other enough of what they were thinking. “It's not that I would mind people knowing, but ...”

“I don't want them to, not yet.” Ren sat up on her knees next to him. “Does that bother you? I just ... I don't want to share this.”

“I don't, either,” he said, sitting up and reaching for her. He kissed her hard, one hand in her hair and the other one squeezing her ass. He flipped her over onto her stomach, his hand resting on her firm, rounded buttock. “Morvoren?”

“Yes, Bull, please.” She lifted her ass in the air to give him better access.

He spanked her until her skin was thoroughly reddened, and then took her from behind. He left her there, tucked warmly under the blankets, completely sated, and made his way in the rain back to his room above the tavern.


	37. Approaching Dangers

Ren had given some thought to which of the many dragons they had glimpsed over the course of their travels she should take the Iron Bull to kill, and was leaning toward the Storm Coast. It seemed appropriate, given that the Storm Coast was where they had first met, and given both of their yearnings toward the sea. 

But that plan was put on hold at breakfast the next morning, when Ren was summoned up to Leliana’s rookery. Leliana had finally tracked down Blackwall—he’d been seen in Val Royeaux, attending the trial of a man named Cyril Mornay, who was accused of the murders of a nobleman and his family in Orlais. Mornay had been on the run for a decade since the killings.

“What does this Mornay have to do with Blackwall?” Ren asked.

Leliana gave her a sidelong look that told her nothing. “It is hard to say for certain.”

Ren had the distinct impression that her spymaster knew more than she was saying, but she knew from experience that Leliana would say only what she needed to and no more. 

“Mornay is being hanged in a few days,” Leliana said. “I would strongly suggest that you attend the execution.”

A strong suggestion from Leliana was as good as an order. “I’ll leave after lunch.”

The Iron Bull was less than entirely pleased that Ren was leaving again so soon, and for Val Royeaux of all places—meaning there was pretty much no chance of any fighting to be done. But he was relieved that he wasn’t being left behind on this trip. He didn’t think he could have handled any more time pacing the battlements, not knowing what was happening to her.

In the midst of her hasty preparations for the journey to Val Royeaux, Ren was caught by Varric, who had a female dwarf with him, both of them looking downcast and disturbed. Varric introduced his fellow dwarf as Bianca, bringing up all sorts of questions regarding the name of his crossbow; Ren wondered if she would ever be able to convince him to tell her the story. She made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t ask unless Hawke came back, however. It seemed only fair.

Bianca, the living version, explained that she knew of an entrance in the Hinterlands to the Deep Roads thaig where Varric had first found the red lyrium idol, the beginning of all of this. Varric studied his boots through all of this recitation. Ren knew he felt a deep sense of guilt and responsibility over the red lyrium idol’s fate and all the damage it had caused. She waited until he looked up at her, and then promised him that they would meet Bianca in Valammar, the entrance to the Deep Roads in the Hinterlands, as soon as she returned from Val Royeaux.

Varric played it off as though he didn’t care. Bianca took off immediately, and he played that off as though he didn’t care, either, but neither attempt fooled Ren. She hated to see the dwarf’s usually cheerful face so closed-off and dark.

Ren had hoped to get a chance for lunch before leaving Skyhold, but was foiled there, as well; on the way into the keep, she ran into Mother Giselle and Dorian having a quiet but intense argument. When the mage stalked off, his face thunderous, Mother Giselle turned to Ren. The Inquisition’s representative from the Chantry had few positive things to say about Dorian, despite the fact that she had rarely ever spoken to him and had certainly never discussed his conception of Andrasteism with him. Ren imagined if she had, Mother Giselle might have discovered Dorian’s views weren’t as far from hers as she thought. While Ren's own views were much farther, a fact Mother Giselle ignored as hard as she could.

Mother Giselle had gotten herself embroiled in a correspondence with Dorian’s parents, and now she wanted Ren to trick Dorian into meeting a family retainer at an inn on the outskirts of Redcliffe.

Ren was hard put to remain civil. This was the Chantry? Lying to a believer on the behalf of people who didn’t have the courtesy to approach him themselves? Lending itself to what appeared to be a kidnapping plot? She told Mother Giselle in no uncertain terms to mind her own business.

It wasn’t until they were on their horses on the way out of Skyhold that Ren calmed down enough to remember that she hadn’t managed to eat, thanks to Mother Giselle’s meddling. 

The broad-shouldered draft horse the Iron Bull rode pulled up next to hers. “Here, take this,” he said, handing her a sandwich. “You should take better care of yourself.”

Ren smiled up at him. “Isn’t that what I have you for?”

He returned the smile, his grey eye warming. “And don’t you fucking forget it.”

They arrived in Val Royeaux just in time; the execution was set for just a few hours after they rode into town. A report from Leliana said she suspected Blackwall would be at the execution, so Ren left the Iron Bull, and Josephine, who had come along on an errand of her own, at the inn where they were staying and slipped into the crowd by herself, hoping to remain unobtrusive.

She saw nothing, and no one. The execution proceeded as scheduled, the noose around Mornay’s neck … when a familiar voice shouted “Stop!”

Blackwall climbed the steps to the scaffold. Mornay looked up at him with a mixture of pleading, anger, and contempt, but Blackwall didn’t return the look. Instead he addressed the crowd, proclaiming Mornay’s innocence, asserting that the man had been acting under orders.

The executioner stepped forward. “Then find me the man who gave the order.”

Blackwall turned to look out into the crowd, his eyes meeting Ren’s. If he was surprised to see her there, he gave no sign of it. As his head turned away from hers, Ren could suddenly understand what he was doing here, the meaning of his story of the dead dog, his need to leave the Inquisition. She called his name.

His head snapped back around, and he shouted at her across the crowd. “No! I am not Blackwall! I never was Blackwall! Warden Blackwall is dead—I am Thom Rainier. I gave the order. The crime is mine.”

Ren didn’t know who Thom Rainier was, but it was enough to know that he—the Blackwall that was to be—had been responsible for the crimes Mornay was to have been hung for. The Orlesian city guards took Blackwall away to jail.

Turning away, Ren looked for any Inquisition messengers who might happen to be in the crowd. Instead, she was met by a familiar broad chest suddenly appearing in front of her, and looked up into the Iron Bull’s eye. “I told you to stay at the inn.”

“Yeah. Not going to happen.”

“So you saw?”

He nodded. It explained a lot—Blackwall had always acted as though he was two very different people. The Iron Bull was pleased to see that Ren appeared distressed but not surprised. She had come a long way from the rather trusting young woman he had first met. “What are you going to do?”

“Go see him, get some answers,” she said with determination.

“Good plan. You think he’ll talk to you?”

Ren nodded. “I think he will. This time, though, please, don’t come with me.”

The Iron Bull smiled a little. “No, I don’t think he’d talk to me at all.”

In the prison cell, Blackwall was hunched over, staring at the floor. He didn’t look up when Ren approached.

Softly, almost as though he was speaking to the floor, he said, “I didn’t take Blackwall’s life, if that’s what you’re wondering. I traded his death; I didn’t think the world should lose a good man like that instead of … one like me. But if I had killed him, it would still be better than what I really did.”

“You stepped up when it counted,” Ren said. 

Blackwall snorted. “You mean, after I destroyed his life, and the lives of so many others. I was their captain, their leader, I gave the orders. Do you know what it does to a man, killing children?” He glanced at her quickly and then away. “Of course you don’t, and I hope to the Maker you never do. And then, once the deed was done, they had to hide. But they were caught, all of them, one by one. Mornay was just the last … I could have turned myself in at any time before.”

“But you did it now.”

Frowning, Blackwall looked full at her face for the first time. “Why are you here?”

“I want to know what happened.”

“No. You don’t. I was greedy; I took money, lied to my men, was responsible for the deaths of innocents. There is nothing there that you want to know about.” He met her eyes, then looked away. “I know you feel an obligation, but there is no need. I … wanted you to think I was a good man, but you saw through that lie. You saw that I am this … murderer, this … monster.”

“Blackwall— Rainier,” Ren corrected when he glared at her. “You are a good man. I have seen that in you, whether you recognize it or not. Somewhere along the line, you became what you pretended to be.”

He shook his head, turning toward the back of his cell. “Just … go.”

She did, but only to the office in the front of the jail, where Josephine and the Iron Bull were waiting for her. After a whispered conference, and with some clear reservations, Josephine set about getting Blackwall released into Inquisition custody.

Tired as she was from all the traveling, Ren didn’t want to stay in Val Royeaux any longer than necessary. As soon as Josephine’s business was done, they left, riding fast back to Skyhold.

Ren kept her distance from Rainier/Blackwall on the way back, and the Iron Bull and Josephine both kept quiet on the subject, seeming to understand that Ren needed time to get her thoughts in order. Blackwall had lied to them, lied to everyone … but Ren understood why. He had tried to atone, in the best way he knew how, for the crimes of Thom Rainier, by becoming a better man. Wasn’t that in some ways a parallel to Ren herself becoming the Inquisitor? The life of Ren Trevelyan, disappointment and waste of space and criminal, had been justified by the Anchor and her role as the head of the Inquisition. Could she sit in judgment on Rainier for doing the same thing?

When the Iron Bull came to her in her quarters at Skyhold the night before Rainier’s judgment, Ren kept her clothes on. She sat before the fire, her legs drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, watching the flames leap.

The Iron Bull eased his body down next to her, but he didn’t touch her. This problem she needed to work out without distractions from him. “You know, it’s not good to look too long at the fire. It mesmerizes you, distracts you from approaching dangers.”

“Are you an approaching danger?” she asked him.

“I could be. You never know.”

She studied him, her blue eyes darker than usual. “No. I know. And I knew about Blackwall—Rainier, too. I knew he was a good man. You could tell there was something … he never quite was the man he claimed to be, and he carried a darkness there. It was obvious he was doing penance for something in his past. But … who isn’t? Why does Solas keep to himself so much? Why does Sera never answer a question seriously? Why does Varric spend all his time writing about other people’s lives instead of living his own? All of us are more—and possibly less—than we seem to be.”

“You’re saying you don’t blame him.” The Iron Bull worked very hard to keep his voice even. He despised Blackwall for the same reason Cullen had laid out when they returned to Skyhold; Blackwall, as Rainier, had betrayed his men, leading them into a job they knew nothing about, and when the job went sour, he had abandoned them. The Iron Bull would never have treated his Chargers that way—for fuck’s sake, he had turned his back on his home, his faith, his very identity rather than betray his men!

“You do,” Ren said, understanding. “How could you not? His actions went against everything you believe in.” She turned her head to look at him. “If he remains with the Inquisition, will you fight next to him?”

“If you tell me to.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You don’t have to like a person to fight next to them; can’t say I care much for Solas, but I know he’s going to do his job in a fight. Same goes for Blackwall … Rainier … ah, whatever the fuck you want to call him. I won’t be his drinking buddy, but I’ll swing a sword next to him, and try not to hit him with it.”

Ren nodded, a slow smile spreading across her face. “You’re pretty damned amazing, did you know that?” She unfolded herself, climbing on top of him and straddling his lap.

“Am I?” he asked, his voice husky.

She grinned, pushing him backward. “Let me show you how much.”

The following day, she sat on the dais in the main hall while two soldiers brought Blackwall in, chained and stumbling at the pace they set. Josephine came forward with her clipboard, saying sadly, “For judgment this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall. His crimes—well, you are aware of his crimes. The decision of what to do with him is yours.”

Ren sat forward, looking at him keenly. “I have heard your arguments, Thom Rainier, and I have given them a great deal of thought. Your crime was reprehensible. You know that. And I know that you have not forgiven yourself any more than many here will be able to forgive you now that they know what you have done.”

“I accepted my punishment,” he said angrily. “I was ready for all this to end.”

“What, your life? Wouldn’t that be convenient—a nice sharp end to all the pain and guilt.” Ren shook her head. “No, Rainier, I am not going to give you the satisfaction of being executed. While I can understand that you are weary of your burden, you are too valuable to be let go of so easily.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you will go where Blackwall intended all along for you to go—you will join the Wardens. I understand the Joining itself is perilous and the life of a Warden—a true Warden—is not an easy one. But you can do some good there, and you can do some good here. When we defeat Corypheus, you will report to the nearest outpost and take your Joining.”

There was almost a relief in Rainier’s eyes. “If I die, it will be no less than I deserve. And if I live … I’ll make it count.”

“Very well.”

The soldiers stepped aside, and Rainier left the hall looking dazed, amidst the shocked whispers of many. Ren refused to discuss her decision with anyone, hoping if she didn’t feed the whispers they would die away faster. 

While most people the Iron Bull had talked to seemed to admire her decision, he didn’t agree with it at all. Blackwall-Rainier had always romanticized the Wardens—he thought of them as knights in a tale, riding in on shining griffons to save the day, and in trying to be Blackwall, he had tried to live up to that romance. Sending him off to be a real Warden was just playing into his fantasies.

But then, perhaps Ren thought the reality of the Wardens would collapse the fantasies; a punishment in itself. The Iron Bull wasn’t going to ask her about it, though. They had made her the Inquisitor—they would have to live with her decisions, whether they agreed with them or not. 

Tonight, he was going to take her mind off it. In her room, he carried her wordlessly to the bed. He tied the usual scarf over her ears as well as her eyes, and he tied her wrists together more tightly than usual, so she couldn’t wriggle free. 

Ren lay back with a sigh. The scarf over her ears didn’t deaden the sounds, but it muffled them enough. In this quiet darkness, unable to move, she was free to let go, to float away on the sensations the Iron Bull was building in her body. He used his hands and mouth everywhere, and then switched to what felt like a scarf, and then a feather, bringing her to the edge of completion over and over again until it was all she could think about—just that one more touch, one more lick, that would bring her to the pleasure that hovered just out of her reach. 

Her voice was muffled in her ears, and she could barely hear her own pleas as she twisted and bucked beneath him. At last, at last, a scrape of his teeth and a crook of his fingers inside her and she exploded, her body pulsing with the force of it.

And then she slept, barely aware of him unfastening her bonds and pulling the covers over her, as he had that first night, so long ago.


	38. Slaying Dragons

The Hinterlands almost felt like home by now, they’d spent so much time in the area. People knew them; Ren found the citizens would flag them down and ask about the Inquisition, bring them fresh-baked goodies, or give them updates on how things had improved since the Inquisition had first begun. Even better, no one in the Hinterlands blinked an eye at her Qunari and Tevinter companions any longer. The Iron Bull and Dorian were Inquisition, now, and, as such, considered to be friends by the population of the Hinterlands.

Under normal circumstances, Dorian would have remarked on the change. Ren knew the suspicion he was still regarded with chafed at him, given how hard he fought on the Inquisition’s behalf. But today their first stop was the rendezvous at the Gull and Lantern in Redcliffe village, meeting the retainer his family had sent, and the mage was more nervous than Ren had ever seen him. He had faced down demons of every stripe, giants, Red Templars, all without breaking a sweat, but the faintest hint of contact with his family took him down from the inside. Ren had to admit she sympathized. She breathed a sigh of relief every time she returned to Skyhold and hadn’t heard from her own father.

When they arrived at the inn, Ren immediately offered to let Dorian go in by himself, but he looked at her, his eloquent eyes asking the favor he couldn’t bring himself to voice. Varric and the Iron Bull took out a deck of cards and started a game of Wicked Grace while they waited, and Ren followed Dorian inside the inn.

It was completely deserted. Except for one man who stood up from a table in the back of the room when they entered. “Dorian.”

The mage sighed. “Father.” He shook his head. “So the whole story about the ‘family retainer’ was just … what? A smoke screen?”

“Then you were told.” Dorian’s father came forward, looking Ren over. He didn’t appear as judgmental as she had half-expected he would; certainly less so than she imagined her own father would if they came face to face. “The Inquisitor, I presume. I do apologize that you became involved in this deception.”

“I became involved to keep it from being a deception,” Ren corrected him. “I thought Dorian deserved to know what he was walking into. I’m sorry you didn’t feel the same.”

“Had I told him I was here, he would never have come.”

“Of course not!” Dorian snapped. “Honestly, Father, was it so far beneath your dignity to come to Skyhold? You preferred to skulk about in a tavern rather than come openly to meet me in my home?” He frowned, stepping closer to his father. “What is this, a kidnapping? An ambush? A warm family reunion?”

Magister Pavus sighed heavily. “Must this be how it always is between us, Dorian? You are my son!”

“Oh, now you call me that? After what you did?”

Ren looked between the two of them, both so stubborn. “You’re both here,” she pointed out. “Can’t you at least try to talk to one another instead of shouting insults?”

Dorian snorted. “Yes, Father. Talk to me. Tell me how mystified you are that I felt I could no longer live under your roof and by your rules.”

“There’s no need to—“

“There is every need!” Dorian turned to Ren. “I prefer the company of men, as you know,” he said flatly. “My father disapproves.”

“Is that … a big concern in Tevinter?” Ren had to admit she was surprised, given the tales of debauchery she had heard about the Imperium—some of them from Dorian himself.

“Only if your entire existence is predicated on the need to create more little future magisters, to carry on the power and prominence of the Pavus line.” Dorian’s lip curled in a sneer. “Every Tevinter family chooses its children’s mates carefully, to distill the perfect mage, perfect body, perfect mind. Perfect future leader.” He sighed, and Ren thought she saw the glitter of a tear in his eye. “That was never going to be my choice … so he thought he would make me choose.”

“Dorian, please, if you’ll only listen to me,” his father begged.

“Why? So you can spout more convenient lies? Plot new ways to take my blood so you can try once more to bend me to your specifications, against my will? He taught me to hate blood magic,” Dorian shouted, his face very near his father’s. “In a land practically ruled by it, my father stood alone in refusing to use it. I admired that. He called it ‘the resort of the weak mind’ … until it was my mind he found weak and wanting. When I refused to play pretend the rest of my life, settle down with some woman chosen for her bloodline and make little mage babies and hide who I really was in the shadows as though I was ashamed of myself … he tried to change me.”

“I only wanted what was best for you!”

“What was best for you, you mean, for your fucking legacy,” Dorian corrected. “You never asked me what I wanted.” He turned and stalked to the door, ready to open it and leave.

“Dorian,” Ren said. “Finish this. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t at least let him speak.”

The mage didn’t turn, but he didn’t open the door, either. “Tell me why you came,” he said softly. 

“I never meant to drive you to the Inquisition …” 

“You didn’t.” Dorian looked back over his shoulder. “I am here because I am needed here; because I can do some good here. Because I believe in the Inquisition’s cause. This is my choice, Father, one that I made freely. Once I had a father who would have known that.”

As Dorian began to pull the door open, his father said slowly, painfully, “Once I had a son who trusted me. A trust I betrayed. I came here to talk to him, to ask him to forgive me. To hear his voice again.” The magister’s own voice broke on the last words. 

The door stopped, half-open. Ren put her hand on Dorian’s. “Go,” she said softly. And she left them there, joining the Wicked Grace game in progress outside.

When Dorian emerged, blinking in the light, looking somehow raw and vulnerable, the Iron Bull and Varric both got up, heading for the horses, leaving Ren and Dorian to talk as they followed the other two through town.

Ren kept silent, waiting for Dorian to begin. She hadn’t the faintest idea how she would react if she were suddenly faced with her father and forced to have a conversation with him; she didn’t envy Dorian the experience. 

“He says we are too alike; that we both have too much pride,” Dorian said abruptly. “Once I would have been overjoyed to be like him. Now … I’m not so certain. I don’t know if I can forgive him.” He looked down at his boots, kicking a rock out of his way. “Can you forgive someone for trying to condemn you to a life of screaming on the inside? Worse, for trying to do a blood ritual to change who you were, fundamentally?”

Ren felt sick to her stomach at the idea. Her father had tried to order her to be what he wanted, but to stoop to blood magic? That wasn’t right. She walked quietly next to him for a few moments, until they were climbing the hill outside the village. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Dorian said immediately, and she treasured his honesty. Not long ago, he would have brushed her off with a flippant answer. “Not really. But … I am glad we came.” He looked at her, his eyes clear and without anger for once. “It wasn’t what I expected, but … it’s better than nothing.” A little smile played across his face. “Maker knows what you must think of me after all this.”

“I think you’re brave,” Ren said. “It isn’t easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path.”

Dorian smiled. “It may not be easy, but it appears to be what lands a person in the Inquisition. Which is not at all a bad place to be.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Ren chuckled. “We’re all mavericks in one way or another, aren’t we?”

The Iron Bull and Varric were waiting for them at a crossroads up ahead. “We weren’t sure if we were heading back to Skyhold or not,” Varric said as they caught up.

Ren glanced at Dorian, who shrugged. “I could continue killing things, if that seems to be the general consensus,” he said.

“All right, then. Varric, Bianca’s waiting for us at Valammar, right?”

He sighed, then nodded, then sighed again.

“No time like the present,” she said, putting her hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. He grunted, trudging on ahead, clearly in an unusually non-talkative mood.

Ren walked with the Iron Bull, feeling flutters in her stomach at his nearness that were completely ridiculous, given how often they’d had sex. Still … something had shifted recently, and it was as though she was seeing him with new eyes.

“Darkspawn, huh?” He nodded, the gleam of battle in his eye. “I can kill some darkspawn.”

“As long as you don’t get yourself tainted.” She looked up at him warningly. 

“You’ve got my back if I do, right?”

“Oh, I’ve got your back. I’ll kill you in all sorts of ways you wouldn’t enjoy.”

“How could you kill me in a way I’d like less than Blight sickness?”

Ren narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t get yourself tainted, and you won’t need to find out.”

He laughed heartily, and she couldn’t help laughing along with him, even though she was seriously concerned about taking him into the Deep Roads, given how much of his skin was exposed to potentially tainting wounds. She’d have left him out of this part of the expedition if she’d thought he would have agreed to it.

Bianca was waiting for them just outside the door that led into the Deep Roads. Something about the dwarf’s body language—closed off and a little bit fidgety—had Ren’s hackles up. But Varric didn’t seem to notice anything unusual, so Ren put her concerns aside as artifacts of her own feelings about descending into the earth.

Dorian, although still looking a bit raw from the interview with his father, was entranced by the architecture; the Iron Bull by the masonry. They hung back, leaving Ren walking with the two dwarves. Varric was quieter than he’d ever been, in Ren’s presence at least. He rose to Bianca’s occasional attempts to draw him into walks down memory lane, but only partway, and each foray was briefer than the last.

There was plenty of evidence that the Red Templars had been mining red lyrium down here. And every piece of evidence seemed to weigh more heavily on Varric’s shoulders than the last.

But the final blow was the worst, the one that came far into the thaig when Bianca finally revealed where Corypheus had learned the secret of where the original idol, and all the red lyrium that had come after it, had been found. From her. Because Varric had given her the secret, and she had been unable to keep herself from studying the stuff, and from searching out someone else to help her with it when her own stock of knowledge ran out.

Bianca was defiant; defensive. Varric tried to retain his outrage and his anger, but he wasn’t used to the emotions, and eventually he threw up his hands. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered before stalking out of the room. Dorian followed him, and the Iron Bull, leaving Ren and Bianca staring at each other.

Putting her hands on her hips, Bianca stepped up to Ren. “If anything happens to him, I’ll feed you your own eyeballs,” she snarled.

The effrontery of it, after she had betrayed Varric without so much as an apology, pissed Ren off. She looked down at the dwarf. “If anything happens to him,” she echoed, “eat your own eyeballs, because it will be your fault. Keep that in mind. All the people Corypheus slaughtered when he attacked the Inquisition at Haven? Also your fault. Come near my Inquisition again and they won’t be able to find all the parts of you to return to the Stone. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Bianca snapped.

“Good.” Ren turned her back on the dwarf. She hoped the darkspawn ate her.

Varric was silent until they got out of the Deep Roads. In the sunshine, he took a deep breath. “I hate the sodding Deep Roads. Nothing good ever comes out of them.”

“I’m sorry, Varric.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Just when I thought I knew how much of this mess was my fault …”

“What Bianca did isn’t your fault,” Ren told him.

He snorted. “Tell yourself that. Maybe you can believe it, but I can’t.” Varric shook his head. “Anything else on the agenda for this trip?”

“You up to killing a dragon?” She said it softly so the Iron Bull wouldn’t hear.

“Oh, sure, why not. This day really can’t get any worse; might as well get mauled by a giant flying lizard.” Varric looked up at her, trying to summon a smile. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be all right.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Maybe later. Not now. Let’s go kill your dragon.”

They could hear the dragon at the Inquisition campsite nearest her hunting grounds. Her roar practically shook the mountains as they came closer, and the Iron Bull searched the sky, his eye shining. “We’re fighting her, right? Tell me we’re fighting her!”

Ren nodded, grinning. “Oh, yeah. We’re fighting her.”

“You are fucking awesome, boss,” he said, still watching the dragon as she wheeled and circled above them.

“I don’t suppose you’ve given any thought to how you’re going to get her to come down here where the two of you can bang on her with your shiny sticks, have you?” Dorian asked.

Ren looked at him and at Varric, both of whom seemed significantly less exhilarated by the idea of dragon-fighting than she and the Iron Bull were. “Your call, boys. Flame blast or crossbow bolt.”

They sighed, exchanging a glance of tolerant irritation, then Varric unslung Bianca and Dorian hefted his staff, and they let fly at the same time. The dragon roared a battle cry, whirling far above their heads in her search for the source of the sudden attack. Next to Ren, the Iron Bull puffed out his chest and roared back as best he could, answering the challenge.

“You two stay back here where it’s safe,” Ren told Varric and Dorian.

“No shit,” the dwarf responded, tucking himself in between two rocks. From that position he could fire at the dragon, but she would have a hard time reaching him.

Dorian stood near him, his eyes on the dragon, his staff in motion. Flames hadn’t seemed to do much to the dragon, so he had switched to ice. She cried out and tumbled to the ground as the weight of the ice on one wing dragged her down.

“Ready?” Ren asked the Iron Bull. He grinned wildly at her and ran onto the field.

The dragon might be down, at least for the moment, but she wasn’t incapacitated. A jet of flame burst forth from her; the Iron Bull rolled away from it just in time. Flattening herself on the ground, Ren could feel the heat of the flames passing above her.

Ren got to her feet, circling around the dragon while the Iron Bull drew the beast’s attention. He was shouting something at the dragon in Qunlat, something Ren couldn’t quite catch. Oddly, the dragon seemed to, and Ren could have sworn the dragon bowed her head at the Iron Bull.

Several crossbow bolts were embedded in the dragon’s wings now, and Dorian was keeping them coated with a layer of ice. The dragon kept beating her wings in an attempt to raise herself off the ground, the powerful wind from the motion knocking Ren off her feet and dragging the Iron Bull closer to the dragon’s side. He wasn’t complaining, however. His sword was in constant motion, hacking against the dragon’s body, scoring the thick hide but not quite penetrating it.

Ren ducked under the dragon’s body while the Iron Bull was distracting her, looking for weak spots in the softer underbelly, stabbing deep into the flesh with her daggers. The dragon didn’t seem to notice; the flesh was easier to penetrate here but there was so much of it that Ren wasn’t doing much damage. But at last the dragon seemed to feel one particularly deep cut, swinging her body heavily and hunting for Ren with her sharp-toothed jaws.

When the dragon turned away from him, the Iron Bull bellowed in primal triumph, thrusting his great sword into the neck, just behind the dragon’s ruff. She shrieked, whirling as best she could back to him, a great rumble preceding a jet of flame that he barely managed to scramble away from. 

Ren dodged a convulsive kick from the dragon’s back leg, rolling away just in time to have the tail smash itself against her. She got dizzily to her feet, her ears ringing, fumbling in a protected pocket for a healing draught. Drinking it down, she rejoined the fray as her hearing cleared.

Slowly, slowly, they wore the dragon down, their greater agility pitted against her massive strength. Bite by bite they bled her, their blades digging into any space they could find that might do damage. It was hot, dangerous, sticky work, both of them liberally daubed with the dragon’s blood, and some of their own. Ren was glad Varric and Dorian were relatively protected. She could tell the mage, at least, was tiring, but at least they weren’t bearing the brunt of the dragon’s attacks. 

At last the Iron Bull gave a shout of triumph, managing at last what he had been trying to do all along—he thrust his sword deep into the back of the dragon’s throat as she was in midroar, and the momentum as the head dropped to attack him helped force the sword up through the roof of her mouth and into her brain.

Her long neck and heavy head fell forward, the Iron Bull jumping out of the way at the last minute.

“Ha!” he howled at her. “See that! And who killed you? The Iron Fucking Bull!” He yanked the sword out of the dragon’s mouth, holding it up above his head as he tipped his head back and roared in a fairly good imitation of the dragon.

His massive shoulders were gleaming with sweat, his body splashed in blood and covered in scorch marks, practically glowing in triumph, and Ren, getting to her feet after a kick that had sent her flying across the battlefield, thought she had never seen anything so damned sexy in all her life.

She cast a glance in the direction of Dorian and Varric. The mage called to her, “We’ll head back to camp, get some men to come and clean this up.”

Yes. They would want the bones and the blood and the teeth, she thought. But … not quite yet. “Take your time,” she shouted back, and Dorian’s grin in response said he had a fair idea of what she meant.

By the time the mage and the dwarf were out of sight, the Iron Bull had finished his victory dance, or at least paused in it, and when Ren looked back at him she found that single grey eye fixed on her, the heat in it practically scorching her where she stood.

Then she was in his arms, their mouths coming together in a violent mashing of lips and teeth and tongues that just wasn’t enough; it barely touched the roaring fire inside them. She could taste the dragon’s blood in his mouth, or in her own, or both, a burning spicy taste that only heightened the need in her.

“Fuck me, Bull,” she managed to gasp.

“Yes,” he growled into her ear. “Now.”

Between them they wriggled her pants down and then he bent her forward so that her cheek was pressed against the still warm skin of the dead dragon. It felt smooth against her skin, supple.

The Iron Bull’s first thrust was not gentle, and Ren braced an arm against the dragon’s side to keep her balance, pushing back against him. She wanted more, harder, faster, deeper, rougher, her breath coming too fast to be able to speak.

He slammed into her, over and over. His big hand tangled in her hair, pulling her back against him, her head pressed into his shoulder, his mouth hot and wet against her ear. “ _Ataashi_ ,” he muttered thickly. Then again, louder, “ _Ataashi_!” Ren turned her head and his mouth covered hers, feverish kisses to go with the pounding of his cock into her. Her fingers were between her legs, frantically rubbing, trying to keep time with his movements.

With a mighty shout, he gave a last thrust, and Ren felt her own climax coming, rushing toward her like an avalanche, and then it was sweeping her along with it, and all she could do was hope the Iron Bull’s arms around her didn’t give out before she could stand again.

And then the fever had passed, the fire cooling, and they hastily rearranged their clothes. The Iron Bull took her face in his hands. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m good.” Grinning, she added his usual phrase. “Better than good.”

“Me, too,” he said, pressing his face against her hair, breathing in deeply. “Can we do it again?”

“How many dragons are there in Thedas?” Ren winked at him.

He chuckled. “Not enough.”


	39. Ataashi

As they reached the steps to Skyhold’s main keep, Ren saw Mother Giselle standing on the landing. The woman’s eyes flicked from Ren to Dorian at her side and back again, and a startled gasp escaped her. 

“Didn’t expect him to return?” Ren asked, pausing on the landing next to the Chantry mother.

“I … perhaps we could speak elsewhere.”

Ren frowned. “I just got back from the Deep Roads and fighting a dragon. If I go inside the keep, it’s to go to my room, take a hot bath, and go to sleep. If you want to discuss this, we’ll discuss it right here.”

“I am …” Mother Giselle looked around helplessly. “I am concerned that this man has returned; I had thought he would be going back to Tevinter with his family retainer.”

“You mean you hoped, don’t you?” Dorian asked.

“I believe you exercise … undue influence over our Inquisitor, and that is … dangerous in the current climate.”

“’Undue influence’?” Ren echoed. She bit back a smile, thinking of what Mother Giselle would say if she knew Ren and the Iron Bull were lovers; surely a Qunari was worse than a Tevinter mage. Or perhaps not … it was hard to say, given the way people tarred everyone from Tevinter with the same evil brush. “What kind of undue influence?”

“Your Worship, you must know how this looks.”

“I know how odd it seems that a member of the Chantry refers to a mere mortal with no Chantry connections as ‘Your Worship’. What I don’t know is why Dorian’s companionship should look any worse than, say, the Iron Bull’s or Solas’s.” Ren wished the Iron Bull hadn’t already gone to the inn; he would have enjoyed this conversation.

“You might need to spell it out,” Dorian said. He was as tired as Ren, and it was evident in the unusual bite to his voice.

“This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side … the rumors alone …” Mother Giselle stammered. She took a deep breath. “I am aware that not everyone from the Imperium is the same.”

“Are you? You could have fooled me,” Dorian said, folding his arms. “You still bow to the opinion of the masses, whatever you may claim to be aware of.”

“Their opinion is based on centuries of evidence. What would you have me tell them?”

“I would have you not spread bigotry and hatred and intolerance based on the past in my Inquisition,” Ren snapped. “We have enough trouble right here in the present.”

“We do not have enough evidence to be certain this situation is different from the past.” Mother Giselle looked at Dorian with open dislike. “Thus, these rumors will continue.”

“That sounds suspiciously like you have some control over these rumors. Care to share them with me?” Ren asked.

Mother Giselle’s lips pinched together as she looked between the two of them, too late catching up to the lay of the land. “I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor. If you feel this man is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg the forgiveness of you both.”

Ren shook her head. “As you know, I do not follow the teachings of the Chantry; but I make every effort to respect the faith of those within my Inquisition who do. As such, I do my best not to meddle with your operations here. The Inquisition has an Ambassador and a Spymaster who are perfectly capable of researching the intentions of those within its ranks, and no doubt they have already done so. It bothers me quite a bit that you appear to have carried on a campaign against one of my companions without consulting anyone in the Inquisition’s leadership about it. Now, I imagine there are other Chantry mothers who could act as our spiritual leader, and if anything of this nature ever happens again, I will be finding one of them to take your place. Am I clear?”

Mother Giselle nodded her head, turning away from them and hastily hurrying inside the keep. Ren made a note to ask Leliana to find a way to replace Mother Giselle anyway; if they couldn’t trust her to act without prejudice, she didn’t belong here.

Ren and Dorian continued up the steps into the keep more slowly, both of them wearied from their travels and the confrontation. “Don’t listen to her,” Ren said to him.

Dorian shrugged. “There are rumors, she’s not wrong about that. And her concern is well-meaning, if misplaced.”

“If it was well-meaning, she wouldn’t have gone behind all our backs. She should at the very least have spoken to Josephine or Leliana when your parents first contacted her. It doesn’t matter, anyway—let them talk.”

“Listen to you.” Dorian laughed. “It’s good to be the Inquisitor.” He looked at her quizzically. “Do the rumors bother you?”

“I haven’t heard any. Apparently it is good to be the Inquisitor.” She smiled at him.

He put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. This … may be odd for me to say, but … I think of you as a friend. I have precious few of them; I didn’t expect to find one here.”

“I think you’ve found more than one, if you look around.” They were entering the main hall now, and the door of Ren’s quarters was practically blinking at her from the other end of the room. She looked at Dorian. “There’s no one else I’d rather have throwing fireballs on my behalf.” Impulsively, and not without a glance at Mother Giselle seated at one of the long tables, Ren put her arms around him and gave him a hug. “Never doubt your value to this Inquisition—or to the Inquisitor,” she whispered in his ear.

Startled, Dorian returned the embrace briefly. Letting go, he said, “If that doesn’t start some rumors, nothing will.”

Ren winked at him, turning toward her quarters. On her way, she spied Varric coming out of the stairwell from the basement. He had disappeared as soon as they got in, and Ren had suspected it was to avoid any questions about what had happened in the Deep Roads. Now, seeing his startled, almost guilty expression, she knew that was what it was about, and stopped to reassure him.

“Varric, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“Ah … shit, Rusty,” he groaned. “I’m glad to have answers, but …” He shook his head. “The second she showed up here, I knew it. I just … knew it.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I let this mess happen. I gave her the thaig, and then she … I am not good at dealing with shit like this.”

“I don’t think anyone is any better equipped for it than you are.”

“That’s sweet, but you don’t understand. Look, I just—the point is, I don’t deal with things. If Cassandra hadn’t dragged me here, I’d be in Kirkwall right now with my feet up in the Hanged Man, pretending none of this was happening.”

“That may be true, but you’ve worked as hard as any one of us to stop Corypheus.”

“That’s because I started him!” Varric said. He stopped and looked around. Lowering his voice, he said, “If Hawke and I had made sure Corypheus was dead, I could have prevented all of this. I thought we had, but … And if I had just not told Bianca about the thaig, I could have prevented all of this. It’s … It’s Kirkwall all over again.”

“Corypheus would have found another way. We don’t even know if he can be killed, anyway,” Ren said, trying to focus on the part where that was comforting and not the part where it was terrifying. 

“Maybe.” He rubbed his hands over his face again. “I don’t even know anymore.”

“Get some sleep, Varric. Things will look better when you’re rested.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Thank you for your help back there.”

“Varric?”

“What?”

“After all this, do you think you’ll see Bianca again?”

He sighed. “I always do.” He didn’t look exactly happy about the prospect. Ren hoped Bianca had the good sense to stay far away from Skyhold.

She yawned suddenly. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m keeping you up. Go get your beauty sleep, Rusty. We’ll talk later.”  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull had hurried off to his own room as soon as he got down off his horse, needing to be alone for a few minutes. He was still shaking, still energized and excited and astounded by what they had done. His whole life he had dreamed of fighting a dragon, killing a dragon, and now this woman, his _kadan_ , had made that possible—and made it possible because she knew it was what he wanted.

Better than that, she had stood next to him, her blades flashing in the sunlight, undaunted by the dragon’s size or the flames that erupted from its mouth. And after … fuck. She had been like a wild thing, like a dragon herself, biting his lip and thrusting herself back against him and growling low in her throat. He didn’t even know if she’d been aware of how wild and unleashed she had been, but it had been fucking glorious.

The Iron Bull sprawled on his back in his bed, his hand finding himself, stroking to the memory of her bent over that dragon, her gorgeous ass in the air, waiting for him. Just the thought was enough, the remembered scents of sex and dragon’s blood, the remembered taste of the blood on his tongue. 

Lying there panting in the aftermath, he thought about her. She had saved his sanity after he left the Qun and in the Fade, she had killed a dragon with and for him. He had never imagined a woman so very perfect for him; there was no question about it, he was hers, body and soul. Once that would have frightened him. Now, as he wiped off his stomach and hand and pulled up the blanket for a nap, it made him smile, thinking of when he would see her again tonight, his heart already beating faster at the thought.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
After a long rest, a good meal that Flissa brought to her room, and a hot bath, Ren felt ready to face the Inquisition again. She had agreed to meet the Iron Bull in the tavern later tonight for some myserious purpose he wouldn’t tell her about, but for now it was only sunset, and she felt the need to walk around Skyhold and see what might have gone on during her absence.

She made her way through the main keep, chatting with people finishing up a late dinner. At the massive double doors of the entrance, she spied a familiar bearded figure, and with a smile for the soldier she was talking to, she excused herself and hurried to catch up. 

“Blackwall!” she said breathlessly.

He turned, halfway down the stairs, and waited for her. “Inquisitor.”

“How are you settling back in? Any troubles I need to be aware of?”

“My troubles are my own, Inquisitor, as they have always been,” he said courteously.

“So you’re still angry that I had you brought back.” His silence spoke volumes, and Ren sighed. “I don’t necessarily blame you, but you’re not looking at the big picture. Your grand gesture was dramatic, and it saved Mornay’s life, but there were other ways. And when it was my decision, I made the call that we need you here, in the Inquisition, not sitting in a jail cell or hanging from a gibbet somewhere in Orlais. I believe the real Blackwall would have agreed with me.”

“Possibly,” he conceded.

“Speaking of that … what shall I call you now? Rainier, or Blackwall? Do you have a preference?” From the way he winced at the first name, she suspected he did, but she had to get him talking somehow, so she waited for the answer.

“I’ve … gotten used to Blackwall,” he said, the words dragged out of him reluctantly. “Perhaps we could consider it less of a name, and more of a title.” He smiled at her suddenly, just a twitch of the corner of his mouth, but a massive step forward, as far as Ren was concerned. “Almost like ‘Inquisitor.’”

“Definitely not my name,” Ren agreed. “Blackwall it is. It suits you—it always has.”

He didn’t respond to that, looking up over the battlements to the mountains, the snow shining in the last light of the setting sun. “It reminds me of who I ought to be. Who I strive to be, in order to …” He let the words trail off. “If it’s all the same to you, Inquisitor, I prefer to be alone. I’m not quite ready to be part of—all this,” he waved his arm around them at the bustle of the Inquisition in motion. “Not yet.”

“Understood. You know where to find me when you are.”

“I do, thank you.” He nodded his head and turned down the steps toward the stables and his wood carving, which had been left alone in his absence. No doubt it would bring him comfort now.

Ren made the rounds, checking in briefly with Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine. They would have their official meeting the next day to catch up; these were more about making sure they were all personally holding up. Josephine was smiling over a letter that she hastily put away when Ren came into her office, and Ren couldn’t find a subtle way to ask about it that she thought the Ambassador would fall for. She wondered who it was who had put such a flush on Josephine’s cheeks. Cullen seemed much better now that he had committed himself to staying off the lyrium—whether the withdrawal symptoms were growing easier to bear with time or whether his renewed commitment to beating the addiction had given him extra strength, he seemed better rested and more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. Then again, Ren thought, slipping out of his office and leaving him alone with Leliana, perhaps it was the bard who had done the trick.

She made her way down into the tavern, which was emptying out by this point in the night. She found the Iron Bull sitting at the bar with a large pitcher of something. 

He lifted an empty mug when he saw her. “Inquisitor! Come have a drink!” Filling the mug, he handed it to her with a flourish. “To killing a high dragon like warriors of legend!”  
Clearly, he had been here drinking for some time already. His voice was louder than usual, his diction unusually slurred.

Ren took the mug, looking into it. The liquid was dark, alcohol fumes practically rolling off of it. “What exactly am I supposed to be drinking?”

“ _Maraas-lok_.”

“And that means?”

He lifted his own mug, tapping it against the edge of hers. “It means drink!”

Ren nodded. Of course it did. She lifted the cup to her lips, taking a swallow meant to look deeper than it was. Even that much burned over her tongue and down her throat, and she coughed.

The Iron Bull laughed. “I know, right? Put some … chest on your chest.” His eye moved down over her body. Whether it was the look or the drink, Ren could feel the heat starting to rise in her. 

She smiled. “I think my chest has just been insulted.”

“Never,” he said, his gaze increasing in intensity. He drank again, grunting. “You believe we killed a fucking dragon? Just you and me.”

“With some help from Dorian and Varric.”

“Yeah, they did good work.” He looked above her head, seeming to see the battle again in his mind’s eye. “That little gurgle right before she spat fire? And that roar. What I wouldn’t give to roar like that.” He grunted again. “The way the ground shook when she landed, the smell of the fires burning … _Taarsidath-an halsaam_ ,” he said softly.

“Next time we leave Skyhold, you can practice your roaring skills. Just … not around the horses.”

The Iron Bull chuckled. 

“That thing you just said, what does it mean? You shouted it during the fight, too, I think.”

“Oh, _taarsidath-an halsaam_? The closest translation is ‘I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect.’” He grinned.

Privately, Ren wondered what it really meant. She had started keeping a notebook of the Iron Bull’s translations of Qunari words and phrases—their experience with Gatt had given her the strong impression that what the Iron Bull said the words meant was much more poetic than what they actually meant. “You shouted that while it was breathing fire at us?”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking it.” He raked her with that heated look again. Ren thought of what they had done after the dragon was dead and wondered how long until they were done drinking so they could do it again.

“I wasn’t thinking of doing it myself, that’s for sure.” She returned his look, heat for heat.

He popped his eyebrow in response, his gaze on her mouth. Dragging his eye away, he took another drink. “Good point.” He grunted again. “Did you know Qunari hold dragons sacred? Well … as much as we hold anything sacred.” He refilled both mugs. “Here. Drink!”

Raising her mug, Ren took a longer swallow this time. The second gulp was less painful, turning to a warm glow sooner than the first had. The whole room seemed brighter.

“Yeah! Second cup’s easier. Most of the nerves in your throat are dead after the first one.” The Iron Bull leaned over just a little. “ _Ataashi_. ‘The glorious ones.’ That’s our word for them. Ataaaaassshhheee,” he said, rolling the word over his tongue.

Ren wondered if he remembered calling her that in the heat of the moment. The idea that he had called her a glorious dragon made her, if possible, even warmer than the drink had. That one was definitely going in the notebook. “Why do you think the Qunari think of dragons that way?” she asked.

“The horns, I guess,” he said. “We just look more … dragony than most people.”

Looking at him, Ren could see it. She had never thought about it before, but his eye was very much like a dragon’s eye. With the eyepatch, he was like a pirate dragon. Now that was hot.

The Iron Bull was gazing thoughtfully into his drink. He swirled the liquid around, saying, “A few of the Ben-Hassrath came up with this crazy theory. See, the Tamassrans control who we mate with. They breed us for jobs like you’d breed dogs or horses. What if they mixed in some dragon a long time ago?”

“How would they have done that?”

“The usual way, I suppose.”

“I pity that poor woman.”

The Iron Bull roared with laughter. “I suppose they could have had her drink the dragon’s blood, or used magic. I don’t know.” He nodded slowly, the smile gone from his face. “Something in that dragon we killed … it spoke to me.”

“In that case, it’s a shame we had to kill it.”

“Damn good fight.” He put his mug down with a thump on the bar. “Dragons are the embodiment of raw power. But it’s all uncontrolled, savage …”

Like he had been afterward. Who was she kidding, like she had been, too. But Qunari were all about control; no wonder he was a natural dragon-fighter.

“So … they need to be destroyed. Taming the wild. Order out of chaos.” He poured the rest of what was in the pitcher into the two mugs. If he noticed that his was empty and Ren’s was still half full, he didn’t say anything. “Have another drink.”

Unable to take her eyes off him, wanting him, she drank deeply, and choked again at the burning. 

He laughed. “Nice! To dragons!” He swallowed half of what was in his mug in a single gulp.

“To the Iron Bull.” She took a more prudent swallow of her own drink.

“And his ass-kicking Inquisitor,” he said, his voice dropping into a deeper register that seemed to travel all the way through her. Leaning over in her direction, looking at her intensely, he said, “Hey. Hey, _kadan_ , listen.”

That was a new word, too, Ren thought hazily. She wondered what it meant.

“I always want to say this,” he went on, his voice low, “and I never can when we’re off saving the world.” They looked at each other for a long moment, the world narrowing to just the two of them, and then he leaned back just enough to break the moment and said, in a different tone, “You’ve got fantastic tits.”

Ren grinned, despite her disappointment and her deep desire to know what he had really been about to say. “Aw, that’s sweet. Here I thought it was only my ass you liked.”

“Nah. I pretty much like the whole package.” He leaned over, his mouth close to her ear, his eye heavy-lidded. Ren shivered as his hot breath wafted across her skin. “Come upstairs with me. My _ataashi_.” The words came out slow, and hungry, and blurred with drink, and Ren would have had him right there in the tavern if she could have.

She took a deep breath, saying lightly, “I thought that whole taarsid—“

“ _Taarsidath-an halsaam_.”

“That. I thought it was about giving yourself sexual pleasure.”

He grinned. “It’s a loose translation.”

Ren got up, holding on tightly to the back of the chair as the world spun around her. She’d drunk more than she thought. “I’ll meet you up there.”   
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull made his way upstairs, the steps swimming a little bit in front of his eye. His blood was running hot in his veins, partly from the drink but mostly from Ren. He couldn’t wait to be in his room with her, to lock the door and shut out the rest of the world. Just the two of them; that was what he wanted, needed, as much and as long as he could have it.

Waiting for her in his room he paced back and forth, sat down on his bed and kicked the boards with his feet, took his pants off and put them back on again, opened the door and poked his head out to see if she was coming. He was so nervous, the time seemed to drag on and on. What was taking her so long? 

He hardly recognized this version of himself—no one else in his life had had quite this effect on him; he hungered for her every moment he wasn’t with her, and not just because of her body or her passion, but because of her eyes and her smile and the way she looked at him and—was she never coming? This waiting was torment.

At last he heard the light tap on the door. He let her in, and closed the door by pushing her up against it, taking her face in his hands and kissing her. They kissed for a long time. All along, he had been afraid to kiss her, afraid that he would lose himself in her soft, wet mouth, in the touch of her tongue against his, in her taste and her scent. And now he had, he had lost himself completely, and all he wanted was more. His fear was nothing but a dim memory.

The kiss broke, but it wasn’t enough. Sliding his hand into the deep rich red silk of her hair, he held her there. “Kiss me again.”

Ren rose on her tiptoes, her arms winding around his neck. The play of her calloused little fingers against his skin was delicious, and he deepened the kiss, pulling her hard against his body. His free hand reached for the buttons on her jacket, but they slipped through his fingers. Maddened by the need to have her naked before him, he gripped the fabric in his fist and was getting ready to rip it off her when Ren put her hand over his. 

“Stop! I have to wear this back later. Let me.” She pulled away, moving farther into the room and turning to face him as her fingers nimbly worked the buttons, dropping the jacket and then the thin shirt she wore beneath it and her breastband into a pile on the floor. She leaned awkwardly against the dresser to unlace her boots and tug them off, and the rest of her clothes quickly followed.

The Iron Bull’s eyes traveled over her, from her slightly mussed red hair to her lust-hazed eyes to her firm round breasts, the nipples already half-hard, to the triangle of red hair at the base of her belly to her long, muscular legs. “You are so fucking gorgeous.”

Ren flushed, smiling a little. The Iron Bull came to her, his hands skimming over her shoulders and down her arms. 

“My _ataashi_.”

“I’m not a dragon. Not really,” she protested breathlessly.

“Yeah, you are.” He got to his knees in front of her, his hands at her hips holding her there, and he pressed his lips against her chest, right above her heart. “Right here.”

“Bull,” she whispered.

He turned his head to capture a nipple in his mouth, rolling his tongue around it. Ren moaned, arching into his touch, her head falling back. The Iron Bull made his way down across her ribcage and her belly, soft kisses, his tongue caressing her skin. Ren sagged in his arms, her knees weakening, and he picked her up and carried her to the bed.

Kicking his pants off, he sat down on the edge of the bed with Ren in front of him, bringing her against him and kissing her again, his hand finding the wetness between her legs and stroking her there as she gasped and sighed into his mouth.

At some point, she hitched her legs over his, lifting herself into his lap so that her heat met his, sliding back and forth, the friction absolutely maddening.

The Iron Bull groaned. Between kisses, he managed to gasp, “I need you—“

“—inside me—“ Ren breathed.

“Now,” he finished, groaning as she sank down onto him. 

“You feel—ah!”

“So good,” he said raggedly. As she rose and fell atop him, he pushed her hair back, his mouth next to her ear. “The way you were today … so hot, charging that dragon. Mmm … like that, yeah.”

“Bull,” she moaned. He could feel her muscles quivering all around him.

He held her tightly against him, still whispering in her ear. “I’ve never seen anything so damned beautiful in my life. Ah, _kadan_ , yes.” He groaned as she tightened around him. And then she cried out, convulsing, and he pressed up into her as far as he could go, feeling the tension snap and release inside him, crying out in his own turn.

Ordinarily he’d have wanted to go again, but between the drink and the long day of travel and the hour, all he really wanted to do now was sleep—preferably with her in his arms. He lay back on the bed, bringing her with him, her head against his chest.

He was so warm and comfortable with Ren tucked against him, he was half-asleep when she started moving. “Don’t go,” he muttered sleepily. “Stay. Stay with me.”

Ren looked at him, something sparking in her blue eyes. He’d have wondered more about that look, but he was so sleepy.

“Have to go,” she whispered, climbing out of bed. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.” She pulled the covers up over him, as he had done for her so often, and bent to kiss him. “Sleep well.”

He thought he couldn’t possibly, not without her; he thought he might even have said so, but he was asleep by the time she’d gotten dressed, and long before she left the room.


	40. Unexpected Delight

Ren was mostly sober as she stepped out of the room at the top of the tavern and onto the battlements. Skyhold was quiet, the night breeze pleasant on her cheeks, the starry sky above her brilliant. She paused, leaning against the wall, looking up to see if she could trace the constellations.

She gradually became aware that she was smiling foolishly as she stood there, and even without seeing herself she could feel that her eyes were as starry as the sky. Tonight had been … amazing. Every time she was with the Iron Bull seemed better than the last.

It crossed her mind that he was probably going to hate himself tomorrow morning. Catching it, she turned the thought over in her mind, wondering what it was about the night that had made her think so. He had called her gorgeous—Ren didn’t think he had ever said that before. He had called her a dragon, in his language and in hers. She wasn’t sure she felt like a dragon, but the idea that he thought of her as one made power, determination, courage pulse hotly through her veins. If the Iron Bull thought she was a dragon, she could be a dragon—for him. 

He had said he needed her. That, too, was new. Talking during sex wasn’t his usual thing, other than words related to what they were actually doing. But the things he had whispered in her ear, those had been about emotion, not how his body felt. And he had asked her to stay, which he had never done before. He had said “don’t go”, in that blurred voice on the edge of sleep. She had never seen him sleeping before, a side effect of them always being in her quarters. It had been hard to leave, hard not to stay and watch him sleep, savoring the trust that represented and the vulnerability that he never allowed anyone to glimpse.

Turning, she looked down at the tavern. When you put all of that together, plus whatever he had been going to say to her while they were drinking earlier … he loved her, Ren thought. Surely that must be what tonight added up to, that he loved her as she loved him.

Her heart was pounding at the thought, and she put her hands over it, sure that all of Skyhold could hear it. Ren had been hiding from these feelings for so long, pushing them down and away and pretending she didn’t feel them, the same way she did with her reluctance to be Inquisitor and her fear that any minute now she was going to completely fail and all of Skyhold would fall because she had made a mistake. At least these feelings she wouldn’t have to hide from any longer, not if he shared them. Now she had to decide what they meant and what she wanted out of them.

Ren had never been someone who thought much about the future. She had drifted from one thing to the next, never much worrying about what she wanted other than a certain amount of freedom. So she didn’t have any experience with searching her own heart for what it desired.

She walked the battlements for what seemed like hours, her hands behind her back, nodding absently at the soldiers she passed, deep in thought. She couldn’t imagine a future without the Iron Bull. His touch, his laugh, his support, his attention … nothing in her life before had even come close. 

Ren was standing in the middle of the battlement, frozen by the enormity of what she felt and what she wanted, when a memory came to her, the Iron Bull telling her … what? Something about a dragon’s tooth—

She started moving, hurrying down the steps and across the courtyard. 

The first glimmers of dawn were beginning to peek over the tops of the mountains, but she paid no attention to the hour. Dagna was a dwarf; she didn’t keep normal hours, some part of her still not dependent on the sun to time her daily activities. Ren wasn’t entirely sure Dagna ever slept at all; she seemed to exist largely on sheer enthusiasm.

As she had predicted, the dwarf was awake and busy at her workbench. “Inquisitor!” she chirped as Ren hurried down the stairs into the Undercroft. “Those new daggers we talked about—“

“No, no, nothing like that. Dagna, what happened to the dragon we killed?”

“It … died?”

“Yes, but the pieces. The head, specifically. The teeth! What happened to the teeth?”

Dagna blinked. “We preserved it all, naturally, Inquisitor.”

“Is it here?”

“Parts of it. The skin and the head are here, but the bones are coming later. They’re much heavier.”

“Good. I need to see the head.”

Dagna frowned. “Maybe if you tell me what you’re looking to have made, we could go from there.”

“It’s …” Ren realized she had no idea what it was supposed to look like. “It’s a necklace. Made of a dragon’s tooth split in two. Do you have any books on Qunari history down here?”

“No. But if it’s Qunari history you’re looking for, why not ask the Iron Bull?”

“I can’t. It’s … um …” Ren could feel her cheeks flaming, and Dagna’s eyes got very big and very round.

“You and— Oh!”

“Exactly.” Ren wished the dwarf would stop looking so startled. “All right, so you’ll get the dragon’s head so we can pick out an appropriate tooth, and I’ll—go to the library and look it up.”

“Of course. Inquisitor?” 

Ren halted halfway up the stairs at the sound of Dagna’s voice. “What is it?”

“If I may—maybe you should get some sleep.”

“Look who’s talking.” Ren grinned at the dwarf, taking the stairs two at a time on her way to the library.

The Iron Bull woke with a splitting headache and some very fragmented memories of the night before. It had been a long time since he’d drunk that much, and that was a particularly potent beverage. 

He sat up with a groan, the world still spinning around him a little, trying to put the events of the previous night together. He had mixed that drink, and while waiting for Ren he had gotten a good head start. Then she had come in. He shivered, thinking of her, his mind jumping ahead to later in the evening, to Ren in his arms, Ren kissing him.

Kissing. Something about the kissing … It had felt good. Too good, in fact. Kissing her had consumed him; he had lost himself entirely. He should be angry with himself for that, frightened of her because she could do that, but he wasn’t. It felt—right. The way it should be.

The Iron Bull groaned, burying his aching head in his hands. He should have nipped this in the bud long ago, before it got this far, he told himself. On the other hand, he had tried. Several times he had tried, but somehow it had never stuck. He couldn’t stay away from her. He loved her too much not to be with her, and while love wasn’t something it had ever occurred to him to look for, he had been in the south, far from the Qun, long enough to know how rare this feeling was, how many people looked for it all their lives. And here it had fallen into his lap when he was deliberately trying to look the other way.

So what was he doing sitting here moaning about it, like some kind of asshole? he asked himself. Just because he wasn’t her kadan? She liked him, she respected him, she clearly felt some affection for him … she had the hots for him in a serious way. If that wasn’t enough for him, then he wasn’t the man his old Tama had raised.

Yeah.

Pushing the whispers of disquiet that his loudest affirmations couldn’t eradicate firmly away from him, the Iron Bull got up and went about his day—a long training session with the Chargers, a meeting with Krem afterward to go over what the Chargers had been doing and what their next assignment should be, a quick sparring match with Cole. The exercise for both body and brain made him feel better and chased away the last vestiges of the hangover, and he was able to sit down to a hefty lunch feeling pretty good.

Ren came by his table as he was finishing. He hadn’t seen her all day, and he felt unaccountably shy—unable to remember everything he might have done or said last night, he was nervous about meeting her eyes, not knowing what he might read there. Ren seemed a bit on edge herself, to judge from the way her cheeks pinkened. She paused on her way by, leaning over to ask softly, “Any chance you have some free time?”

“For you? Always.”

He felt rather than saw her smile in response to that. “Behind the tavern, soon as you’re through.” She kept moving, and he could hear her greeting an Inquisition soldier, asking about a wound he’d sustained at Adamant.

The Iron Bull focused on finishing his food at a moderate pace, rather than wolfing it down and running from the room, the way he was tempted to do. He didn’t want to make it look too obvious.

She was waiting in the stand of bushes behind the tavern, her back to him, and he grinned widely, moving softly up behind her and smacking her firmly on the ass.

Ren jumped, startled, and turned around, eyes narrowed in an attempt at a glare. She swatted him on the arm, but a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. Reaching up, she put her hands on either side of his face, her fingers cool and soft against his heated skin, and pulled his head down toward her.

What had clearly been intended as a brief kiss quickly became anything but. The touch of her mouth sent his head spinning and he couldn’t seem to make his lips let go of hers. From the way Ren was clinging to him, it was clear she wasn’t in any hurry to get to whatever it was she’d brought him back here to ask, either.

To his surprise, she shoved him back against the wall of the tavern, and her mouth left his at last, but only to travel lower, and then lower still, and then—fuck. She was on her knees, taking him out of his pants, her lips and tongue making it impossible to protest.

And, really, protesting was the last thing on his mind. Not only was this his kadan, who knew by know what he liked and was raising his temperature with single-minded efficiency—this was the fucking Inquisitor, on her knees sucking him off in the middle of Skyhold. If that wasn’t enough to blow a man’s mind … he might as well be dead.

Or so the Iron Bull thought later. At the particular moment he wasn’t thinking of anything but the incredible feeling and the imperative need to keep quiet about it. He managed all the way through, until at the last moment a strangled groan escaped him as he watched her swallow everything he had to give—and he defied any man to have more self-control than that.

She got to her feet, looking proud of herself and irresistibly sexy, and the Iron Bull turned her around, pressing her against the wall in her turn, bracing one arm above her head while the other hand traveled down over her jacket, still demurely buttoned up, and found the fastenings of her pants.

They were tight, which he appreciated watching but hated for this purpose, but he managed to get his hand in there, and a hiss of pleasure escaped him when he found her already wet.

Ren’s eyes were closed, her head back against the wall. She drew in her breath sharply as he stroked her. He leaned down, whispering in her ear. “Sucking me off really turned you on, huh?”

She nodded, licking her lips.

“What about it made you so hot?”

Her eyes flew open at that, her mouth forming words that she couldn’t quite get out. He stopped the movements of his fingers at her core to give her an incentive to speak. Ren clearly wanted to protest, but instead she swallowed, moistening her lips again, and said, very softly, “Making you want it.”

“Fuck, woman, when it comes to you I always want it. In bed, out of bed … Wherever. I’d have you on the fucking War Table if I could,” he said, his voice low, his fingers thrusting inside her, his thumb moving in little circles.

Ren sank her teeth into her lower lip to keep herself quiet, but she couldn’t still the motions of her body, her hips rolling in time with his movements.

“Tell me you want it,” he whispered, the need to hear her say it suddenly urgent.

Her mouth opened, her blue eyes meeting his in surprise that he should have to ask, but he did have to, and she must have seen that in his face. “Of course I do. In—ah!—in bed, out of bed,” she whispered raggedly, a smile crossing her face as she echoed his words. “On the War Table, any time you—oh, yes, there, please—any time you say.” She gasped as he twisted his fingers inside her, moving against him.

He kissed her, then, hungrily, his fingers and thumb moving faster until she jerked in his arms, her hands coming up to cling to his harness to hold herself up.

She pressed her head against his chest, holding on as she got her breathing under control, and then stepped away, looking up at him with a half-embarrassed, half-triumphant smile as she straightened her clothing.

“Kind of got carried away there, huh?”

“A little. See you tonight?”

“Yeah, definitely. Hope you don’t plan on getting much sleep.”

Ren grinned. 

“Hey, boss? Was there something else?”

She shook her head, still grinning. “Just wanted a moment alone with you.”

“Oh. Good.” He watched her go, sure that the smile on his face was ridiculously sappy, and not at all sure that he cared.


	41. Wherever Life Takes Us

Ren was unable to find anything specific in the library on the necklace the Iron Bull had mentioned, and she wasn’t about to ask him. She wanted it to be a surprise—and was more than a little afraid that if she asked him about it, he would tell her not to do it. So she and Dagna designed the necklace themselves, choosing the best-looking tooth from the dragon’s head, and Ren haunted the Undercroft until it was finished to her satisfaction, if not Dagna’s—the dwarf would have kept the pair of necklaces for another week, tinkering a bit and adding more runes etched into the surface of the dragon’s tooth, but Ren was impatient. She’d spent the whole week on pins and needles, constantly watching the Iron Bull when they were alone together to fully convince herself that this was what he wanted, too.

She still wasn’t completely certain, but she knew she had to make her own feelings plain. Keeping a lid on them was proving more and more difficult. So much so that as soon as Dagna had completed the necklaces, Ren dispatched Flissa to find the Iron Bull and have him meet her in her quarters, middle of the afternoon or not.

The Iron Bull felt a stab of apprehension when Flissa told him the Inquisitor wanted to see him. He hoped she wanted him for pleasurable reasons, but she’d never sent someone else for him before, and she’d rarely called him up in the middle of the day. Added to the strange, uncertain looks she’d been giving him all week and the uncharacteristic nervousness he’d noticed in her, and he had a sinking feeling that something was wrong. She had been way into their sex, though, which left him entirely confused. Did she want to end it? He couldn’t imagine what else would make her so anxious.

He would let her go if that was what she wanted, of course. He would accept it and move on and let her do the same without any lamenting on his part, no matter how empty his days—and his nights—would be without her. And if it was something else—he would deal with whatever it was when it came.

Ren was waiting for him in her quarters, standing behind her desk, clearly agitated but trying to hide it. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said cautiously.

“I … have something for you.”

Some type of parting gift? The Iron Bull groaned inwardly. This was going to be more awkward than he’d imagined. Still … if they were going to be exchanging parting gifts … “Really? ‘Cause I’ve got something for you, too. Come on,” he said, tipping his head toward the bed. “I’ll go first.”

Somewhat to his surprise, she came with him, sitting down on the edge of the bed and unlacing her boots. The Iron Bull watched as she shed her clothes—it was one of his favorite sights, seeing her beautiful body slowly bared, piece by piece.

“Come here,” he said huskily, when she was naked for him. Ren came to him, turning her face up for his kiss, wondering what the faint sense of sadness she was getting from him was about, worried with a sudden sharp stab of uncertainty that maybe this step was going too far, too fast for him.

There was a sweetness to their touches today, as they both tried to memorize the taste and feel and sounds of each other, as they savored each kiss, not knowing what the other one was thinking. Ren seated herself slowly on him at last, long languorous strokes up and down his cock, taking her time, until neither of them could stand any more. The Iron Bull’s hands fastened on her hips, giving himself leverage to thrust up inside her, seeking release. Ren cried out, his movements pushing her over the edge, falling forward against his chest, and the Iron Bull groaned, holding her against him as his pleasure followed hers.

They lay like that together in the breeze from the two open balcony doors, the sounds of Skyhold at work coming up from the courtyard below. The Iron Bull stroked her hair, the texture so silky and smooth beneath his fingers. “There we go,” he whispered, almost to himself, wanting this interlude to last as long as he could stretch it. “No Inquisition; no war; nothing outside this room. Just you and me.”

Ren lifted her head, looking at him with a resurgence of hope.

The Iron Bull steeled himself. “So. What’d you wanna talk about?” he asked, hoping on his own part that just maybe she had changed her mind about whatever it was that had had her so on edge.

Thoughtfully, Ren said, “Is that what you want, Bull? Just you and me?”

If he admitted that to her, it would be a lot harder to let her go if he had to, the Iron Bull knew, but he had never lied to her before. He wasn’t going to start now. “Yeah.”

Ren’s answering smile was absolutely dazzling, confusing him to no end. She pushed up on her elbows, kissing him softly. “Stay here.”

She got up, crossing the room, slipping her robe on as she went and tying the belt around her waist. At her desk, she opened the middle drawer and took the necklaces out. Then she froze, hearing heavy booted feet on the platform just below her quarters, the door at the bottom of the stairs opening and the owner of said feet taking the steps two at a time. Cullen was at the top of the stairs before she could find breath to tell him to stay back, or to warn the Iron Bull. 

“Sorry to disturb your rest, Inquisitor,” Cullen said, his eyes still on the dispatch in his hand, “but our fortif—“ He lifted his head, seeing Ren in her soft blue robe, and then turned to see the Iron Bull sprawled naked in her bed. “Oh, sweet Maker!”

Ren dropped the necklaces in the pocket of her robe as the Iron Bull nodded, grinning, not moving a muscle. “Cullen. How’s it goin’?”

Cullen was at a loss as to how to answer, lifting the dispatch to shield his eyes. Before he could say anything, another voice spoke from halfway up the stairs.

“Is the Inquisitor awake? I thought perhaps we—“ Josephine, in her turn, reached the top of the stairs, took in the scene, and froze, although in her case her eyes were locked on the Iron Bull’s admittedly impressive equipment. Ren couldn’t blame her for that; she’d stared a few times, too. More than a few.

“I am so sorry,” Cullen sputtered.

“I cannot move my legs,” Josephine said, almost conversationally.

Behind them, another set of footsteps on the stairs, Cassandra’s familiar quick jog, and Ren sighed. So much for being discreet. This was why they so rarely did this in the afternoon, she reminded herself, wishing she had been able to curb her impatience long enough to give the Iron Bull his necklace tonight.

Cassandra, spying Cullen and Josephine still standing at the top of the stairs, began, “Is something the matter—oh!” She, too, stopped still as she figured out the situation.

The Iron Bull groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” It had been funny at first, but he really wanted to know what Ren had been about to say, and all this delay was not making him happy. It wasn’t making Ren happy, either, he could tell. If they were going to keep doing this, he was going to recommend locks on her door.

“Do you see this?” Cassandra asked Cullen and Josephine. 

“No,” Cullen said emphatically.

Cassandra turned to Ren. She seemed almost outraged, and Ren wondered why. It wasn’t as though who Ren took to bed was any of Cassandra’s business. “So, I take it—“

“Actually,” the Iron Bull couldn’t resist putting in, “she’s the one who’s been taking it.”

Cullen tried to smother a most un-Commanderlike giggle, and Ren’s lips twitched in response. It was pretty funny … but it was also pretty irritating, especially with the necklaces burning a hole in her pocket and not knowing how the Iron Bull was going to react to them.

Cassandra ignored the levity. “I apologize for interrupting what … I assume was a momentary diversion.”

Ren thought maybe she understood. Cassandra had been the one to begin the Inquisition, and despite some early reservations, she had stepped aside to let Ren take on the leadership. Now she was going to want to be reassured of Ren’s commitment to the cause. 

On the bed, the Iron Bull held still, hardly daring to breathe. How many times had they said it would be bad for the Inquisition to have their liaison known? And now here was the leadership standing in front of her, demanding that she explain herself. He knew how formidable these people were in Ren’s eyes, how very much she wanted to prove herself to them … but he also knew that if she denied him right now, if she told Cassandra this was a quick fling and nothing more, she would break his heart.

The weight of his gaze was heavy on Ren’s shoulders, and she wished to the Maker, if there was such a person, that all these people had come in ten minutes from now—or not at all. She was sure the Iron Bull would want her to pretend there was nothing between them, to preserve the dignity of the Inquisition and keep her from the suspicion that would come with being known as the lover of a Qunari spy, and she thought about it. For a moment, she really did. But she loved him, and found now that it had come down to the moment that she didn’t care who knew it.

“First off, let’s talk about knocking,” she said tartly. “I may be the Inquisitor and thus at everyone’s beck and call, but I’m still a person who deserves her privacy, and this is my bedroom.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Cullen said. “We should absolutely have knocked. And of course there’s nothing wrong with having a bit of fun. Nothing at all.”

“No, indeed,” Josephine said, still staring at the Iron Bull. “Who wouldn’t be a little curious?”

Cassandra gave them both an irritated look.

“Secondly,” Ren said, “this was more than a momentary diversion.” She wanted to look over at the Iron Bull, to confirm that he was okay with her announcing this, but she was afraid if she did so he would be disapproving, or worse, that he would deny it out of some idea of preserving the Inquisitor’s dignity. “Bull and I intend to continue our … relationship.” She met Cassandra’s eyes squarely. “I assume that won’t be a problem.”

On the bed, the Iron Bull let his breath out slowly, when what he wanted to do was whoop with delight. She couldn’t be breaking things off, not if she had just publicly admitted to being his lover to the leadership of the Inquisition. Now he wanted them out of the room so he could kiss her. And much, much more.

“No problem at all,” Cullen said hastily, and Josephine nodded.

“A surprise, I’ll admit,” Cassandra said in more measured, considering tones, “but not a problem.”

“Good. Now, if there’s nothing else that can’t wait?” Ren said, an edge to her voice. This farce had gone on long enough.

“We’ll leave you be.” Cullen nodded at the Iron Bull, still holding the dispatch in front of his eyes.

Josephine winked at Ren. “Do enjoy yourselves.”

The three of them turned and left, and Ren sighed in relief as soon as she heard the door close behind them, far below. “I thought they’d never go.”

“You okay, boss?” The Iron Bull sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

She smiled at him, relieved that he seemed pleased with her decision to go public. “You know, I believe I am. You?”

“Me? I’m good.” He grinned. “Better than good.”

Ren breathed a long sigh. “Glad to hear it. Now, before anyone else decides to come up …” She crossed the room to him, and took his necklace out of her pocket, holding it out to him. “This is for you.”

The Iron Bull took it, his thumb running over the runed ivory of the polished tooth. “What is this?”

“A dragon’s tooth, split in two.”

He looked up at her, startled. He remembered telling her about this, but that she had held on to the memory … “You know what this means?”

Ren nodded. “That no matter where life takes us, we’ll always be together.”

“And … that’s what you want? You mean that?” The Iron Bull could hardly believe what he was hearing. A warmth spread through him, a happiness that was entirely un-Qunari, and quite possibly the best feeling he’d ever had in his life.

“Every word.” She looked hesitant. “That is … if that’s what you …”

“Of course it is. Fuck, yeah.” He drew her closer to him. “It’s just that not a lot of people surprise me, _kadan_.”

“ _Kadan_ ,” she echoed. “You’ve called me that before. What does it mean?”

He took the smaller necklace from her, the half-tooth strung on a narrow braided cord, and attached it around her neck, his big fingers fumbling with the little clasp. The tooth fit snugly in the hollow of her throat, and he laid his fingertips on it. “ _Kadan_. My heart.”

Ren’s own heart did a backflip, and she smiled, taking the longer necklace, the cord thicker, and fastened it in her turn around his neck, the half-tooth falling in the hollow of his throat as well. Dagna was nothing if not careful about the details. “ _Kadan_ ,” she whispered, letting her fingers caress the back of his neck.

The Iron Bull pulled her down onto his lap, kissing her, slowly, gently. Then he laid her back on the bed, his fingers trailing across her cheek and down her throat, parting the edges of her robe. He wanted to worship every part of her, to tell her with his body all the things he had trouble putting into words, to claim her as his own in every way possible, and the very force of everything he wanted this to mean had his hand shaking so that he couldn’t even unfasten the knot of her robe.

He growled in frustration, and Ren put her hand over his. “What’s going on?”

Meeting her eyes, he said, “You wouldn’t think I’d be nervous, would you, but … you know I’ve had a lot of sex, _kadan_. I’ve fucked, screwed, boned, boinked, shagged, fornicated—but I’ve never … never connected with someone in both body and soul,” he finished, shy about using the other term and remembering what she had said to him long ago.

Ren held his gaze. “Neither have I.”

He remembered her saying that, too. “What about that Brandt guy you told me about?”

She felt vaguely disloyal to Brandt’s memory, because what had been between them had been more on his side than on hers. But she shook her head. “No. That was nothing like this; he saw in me what he wanted me to be, a romanticized image of the runaway noble’s daughter. You—it’s different with you. It has been from the first.” She frowned, stroking his scarred face with her fingertips. “You haven’t been stewing over that, have you, imagining I was still carrying a torch? Yes, you have.” She nodded, reading the answer in his eye. “It doesn’t compare, Bull. _Kadan_. I’ve never felt this way about anyone else.”

He raised himself over her, dipping his head to kiss her, and she thought she had never seen him look quite so much like a dragon.

“ _Ataashi_ ,” she whispered, pulling him down, needing his mouth on hers.

Reassured now, he found the belt of her robe, making quick work of the knot as he kissed her, moving his mouth down across the point of her chin and over the column of her throat, touching the tip of his tongue to the cool ivory of the dragon’s tooth, then to the valley between her breasts. She tasted so good, her nipples hardened and sweet against his tongue. He suckled her, enjoying her gasps of pleasure and the way her hands restlessly moved back and forth along his horns.

He moved farther down, pressing soft, wet kisses along the line of her hipbone and up the inside of her leg as he lifted it over his shoulder, and then he put his mouth on her, his tongue drawing patterns along her folds as she called his name, her grip on his horns tightening. 

Ren pressed herself closer against his tongue, the need rising in her. Maker, he knew what to do with his mouth. She never wanted him to stop; but just as much she wanted to reach that pinnacle that seemed so close but hovered just out of reach. The Iron Bull seemed to read her feelings, because he took it slow, letting the pleasure build in her slowly, steadily, before pushing her over the edge with a scrape of teeth and thrust of tongue.

She rode out the waves, clinging to his horns. When she was able to control her breathing again, Ren found him lying next to her, watching her. He nuzzled her ear, smiling lazily. “I can’t get enough of the way you taste, _kadan_.”

“If I have anything to say about it, you’ll never have to.”

“Well, look who’s greedy now.”

Ren chuckled. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘insatiable.’” She pushed him over onto his back and climbed on top of him, reaching behind her to grasp his length and stroke it. His groan of pleasure, the way he closed his eyes and lifted himself into her touch, rekindled the fire inside her; just knowing she could command such a response from this controlled, stoic man beneath her made her want to melt into him. “Bull,” she whispered.

He moaned, grasping her hips, trying to push her backward onto him, but Ren wanted something different.

“Not here. Not like this.”

The Iron Bull lifted his head. “How do you want it, then, _kadan_?”

“Out there.” She tilted her head toward the balcony; the balcony facing Skyhold. 

From there they could potentially be seen from the battlements in the dying light of the day. Frowning, the Iron Bull asked, “You sure?”

Ren nodded.

“Fuck, yeah.” He was off the bed with surprising speed for a man of his bulk, scooping her up, carrying her across the room, and pressing her back into a corner of the wall, just outside the door to her bedroom. His body would block hers from view, if anyone happened to be passing on the battlements across the way.

“Iron Bull,” she said, her arms looping around his shoulders, caressing the back of his neck. The dragon’s tooth shifted against his throat as she brushed against the cord, and she smiled. “ _My_ Iron Bull.”

“Every fucking inch,” he growled, pushing inside her. 

Ren gasped at the feeling. She loved this, being surrounded by his body and his scent and the sound of his breathing against her ear. Hitching her legs over his hips, she leaned her head back against the wall and let herself be driven steadily up and up and up until he was the only thing that was real, the need he built in her the only thing that was important.

The Iron Bull’s breath was coming in harsh gasps, his movements becoming more erratic as he neared his own peak. “Come for me, my _kadan_. Let me feel you.”

That was all she needed to shatter against him, her cry swallowed in his sudden fierce kiss and his answering cry breathed into her ear as he followed.


	42. In That Room

The Iron Bull let her down, noticing that she winced as her back scraped along the wall. “Let me see that.” He turned her around, seeing the abrasions left behind by their vigorous fuck. “You could have said something, _kadan_.”

Ren smiled at him. “Didn’t want to. But next time, maybe I’ll keep my shirt on before we try out new surfaces.”

All sorts of ideas flooded his mind at those words, and he pulled her against him. Only her hiss of pain as his hand brushed against one of the abrasions kept him from starting all over again. He got her inside and spread an elfroot salve across her back.

“We missed dinner,” he said.

Ren groaned. “And I’m starving. You think if we go down, there’ll still be some food left?”

“I think you’re the fucking Inquisitor and should be able to get something to eat whenever you want it.”

“I don’t like to put them to extra trouble if I can avoid it.”

“What kind of noble are you?” he teased.

“A miserable failure, according to my sisters and my father.” 

She spoke without a hint of hurt or bitterness, but the Iron Bull wondered how much she might be concealing beneath her toughness. He knew enough about her culture to realize that rejection by her family had to have had a heavy impact on her, but if she didn’t want to talk about it, he wouldn’t push it. At least, not yet.

He got up, reaching for her hand. “Let’s go get some food, then.”

“Um, Bull … maybe we might want to get dressed first.”

Raising his eyebrow, he said, “If you insist, _kadan_. Left to myself, I’d keep you naked all the time. Well … except when fighting.”

Ren laughed, reaching for her discarded clothes. 

Downstairs, the main hall was nearly deserted. Small knots of people sat late over their meals chatting quietly, but the vast majority of Skyhold had finished and left. There wasn’t much food remaining on the sideboards, but Ren and the Iron Bull were able to fill their plates.

Varric beckoned to them from across the room, and they carried their plates to his table. He looked them over as they sat down. “So, cat’s out of the bag, huh?”

The Iron Bull could feel his mouth stretching in a ridiculous grin, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. As he turned his head to look at Ren, he found he didn’t want to.

“Looks like it,” Ren said, a matching ridiculous grin lighting her face. She tried to wipe it off, though, remembering Bianca’s betrayal. Varric was looking at her knowingly, as if he was reading her thoughts, and he shook his head. “Varric,” she said on a sudden thought, “I know something you don’t know.”

“Do you, Rusty? Quite an achievement. I’m all ears.”

“Cassandra is waiting for the next issue of _Swords & Shields_.”

The Iron Bull gave a great shout of a laugh that had heads turning all over the room. 

Varric looked at Ren closely. “You said that with a straight face. We might make a sneak out of you yet.”

“I’m already a sneak, thank you. And I said it with a straight face because it’s absolutely true. She’s read every chapter.”

“The romance serial?” He chuckled. “That is the vilest trash I’ve ever read, much less written. She’ll be waiting a while if she wants another chapter. I wasn’t even sure I was going to write one, to be honest with you.”

“Oh, come on, Varric, you have to now,” the Iron Bull put in. “Make it good and steamy. Cassandra needs a few kicks.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Besides the amusement you’ll get out of writing a whole chapter just for Cassandra?”

“Good point.” Varric mused for a moment. “You’re right. It’s such a terrible idea, I have to do it. But I get to be there when you give it to her.” 

“Naturally.” Ren grinned at him before devoting herself to her plate.

Varric went back to a long column of figures, groaning and muttering over them.

“Report from your publisher?”

“Merchant’s guild. Bloodsuckers, the whole lot of ‘em. Bury you in paperwork until you throw money at them just to get it to stop.”

Ren studied her friend. He looked tired; the fiasco with Bianca had really taken the energy out of him. She’d like to get her hands on that dwarf. But she wouldn’t say so to Varric. Unless he brought it up again, that subject was a closed book.

The Iron Bull had gone back for seconds, and had nearly finished those off. 

She yawned. “I’m surprisingly tired. You ready for bed?”

He paused with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. “Am I—oh,” he said, remembering that they didn’t have to hide anymore, and that tonight he could sleep with her in his arms. Part of him was excited about that; part fucking terrified. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

They left the table, wishing Varric a good night, and walked to the door of her quarters together. Ren took his hand and led him inside, hearing a sharp gasp and some whispers before she closed the door. She smiled to herself, glad that at last she could be open about her feelings for him. The Iron Bull looked a little uncomfortable, and she paused on the landing, looking up at him.

“I’m sorry—are you okay with coming back up?”

“Yeah. Yeah, absolutely! It’s just … this is new.”

“People will get used to us.”

“No, not that. Well, yeah, that—not everyone’s going to be happy about this. But … sleeping with someone, that’s … new.” Ren raised her eyebrows at that, and the Iron Bull clarified. “Not the sex, the sleep. I don’t do it; never have. It’s just … gonna be a little weird at first.”

“I guess I’ll have to wear you out some more so you don’t think about it.” Ren grinned at him.

“I like the way you think, _kadan_.” 

She led him up the stairs, sighing as she began stripping off her clothes. “I feel sad for Varric.”

“Because of Bianca?”

“Yes,” Ren snapped. “I can’t believe he still cares for her after she treated him so badly. Or that he can forgive her for letting Corypheus have the red lyrium thaig.”

“Easy for you to say,” the Iron Bull pointed out. “You haven’t spent twenty years carrying a torch for her. Love dies hard, especially when it’s become a habit; she’s part of his identity, and has been for a long time.”

“But look what she did! And she didn’t say a single nice thing to him, the whole time we were in the Deep Roads.”

“You don’t think so? You weren’t hearing what I was, then.” The Iron Bull shook his head. “You can’t get caught up in other people’s relationships, _kadan_. What goes on behind closed doors is for the people in that room; no one else can understand as completely as they do.”

“I guess.” Ren looked up at him, loving the massive intelligence and the thoughtfulness that lay behind that narrow, dark face. “You’ve got a way with words, you know that?”

He grinned at her. “I just hope you’re not expecting me to start spouting poetry.”

They got into bed together, Ren’s head resting on his chest. “I bet you could write poetry if you put your mind to it.”

The Iron Bull chuckled, his hand stroking her hair. It was odd, this lying in bed with someone and not having sex with them, but nice in its own way. “There are limits to even my talents, _kadan_.”

“Hm. Why do I doubt that?” Ren asked sleepily. She nuzzled his chest. “Iron Bull?”

“Morvoren?”

“When I kill Corypheus, write me a poem.”

He chuckled softly. “In Qunlat, or Common?”

“Your choice.”

She was asleep soon after that, her breath soft on his chest. After so many nights of getting up and leaving her, there was a luxury in just lying here and listening to her breathe. 

Surrendering himself into sleep, on the other hand, was another thing entirely. Ren’s quarters were high above Skyhold; even with the doors to the balconies open, the Iron Bull couldn’t hear what was going on outside, not even as he strained to listen. And if he couldn’t hear, how could he protect himself against what might come? There was some comfort in knowing that the platforms and stairs below her quarters squeaked so badly that he would be certain to hear anyone coming up. But someone climbing, hidden in the shadows of the front face of Skyhold’s main keep? Someone slipping softly down from the roof above them? Would he hear that?

For that matter, could he be absolutely certain that Ren was asleep? That this wasn’t a long game on her part to lull him into a false sense of security?

He blinked, stifling a yawn. It was ridiculous to question Ren’s motives; he knew her inside and out, and would have sensed long ago if there was more to her than there seemed. But the night was late, and dark, and he couldn’t remember the last time he slept with someone next to him, so close, without a weapon handy. He was big and could overpower her, but she was quick and knew most of his moves.

As he lay there, torturing himself with shadowy what-ifs, Ren stirred, rubbing her cheek sleepily against his chest, her silky hair brushing across his skin. With a soft, pleased sigh, she slid back into sleep, her naked body sprawled trustingly over his.

If she could sleep so peacefully with him, when she had far more reason to be suspicious of him, then surely he could sleep with her, he told himself. Closing his eye, letting his senses slide into his accustomed level of awareness for slumber, he willed himself to relax, and let her even breathing lull him asleep.


	43. Out in the Open

Ren stirred, the sun coming through the open windows falling on her face. She blinked at it, only then remembering everything that had happened yesterday as she felt the steady rise and fall of the Iron Bull’s chest below her cheek. Truth be told, she was a little surprised that he didn’t snore. Apparently there was no end to the ways in which he was perfect.

She shifted, and he sat up explosively, his hand closing around her throat in reflex even before he got his eye open. Her hands came up to tear at his, and she tried not to panic. As he focused on her, Ren could see awareness come over his face, followed by shame, and he took his hand off her throat immediately. “Fuck. I’m sorry, _kadan_. I’m … not used to sleeping with anyone.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Ren said, pulling herself together. She was rarely afraid of him, but every once in a while she was reminded of how dangerous he truly was. “And here I thought I wasn’t a morning person.”

He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. Ren slid out of bed, pulling on her robe, determined to pretend nothing had happened. 

“You okay?” he asked after a minute.

“Yes.” She pulled out her chair, sitting down at her desk. Looking up at him, she gave him a small smile. “We’ll just have to spend a lot of nights together and get you used to waking up with me.”

“Sounds like a plan.” The Iron Bull picked up his clothes. It was odd getting dressed in front of her in the morning light—odd, but good. He crossed the room to her, his fingers under her chin tipping her head back, and he bent down to kiss her, slowly and softly.

It was lovely, but Ren couldn’t help feeling it was all a bit … too lovely. She didn’t want him to think the tenor of their relationship had to change. “Bull,” she said, her eyes meeting his, “you don’t have to be … sweet and gentle all the time, just because …”

His eye glinted, and he grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head sharply further back. “You question me?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Ren gave him a slow, satisfied smile, glad to see him more his normal self. “No, ser.”

“Good.” A half-smile curved the corner of his mouth before he let go of her hair. “I’m going to go kick the Chargers’ asses. I feel like hitting something.”

“I think you should,” Ren said. “Krem’s been getting soft.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

“Please do. Tell him I’ll be happy to spar with him if he thinks he can take me.”

The Iron Bull chuckled. “That would be something to see.” He paused at the top of the stairs. “See you later, kadan?”

“Count on it. Bull?”

He stopped on the second step down, looking at her inquiringly.

“Don’t wear yourself out too much.” Her tone of voice left no question as to what she wanted him to save his energy for.

His laugh echoed on the stairs, and Ren smiled to herself before turning back to the pile of papers on her desk.

Downstairs, the Iron Bull filled a plate at the sideboard and wolfed down a big breakfast. The stares and whispers were notable. He always got attention—being big and foreign and horned will do that—but this was different, and he could tell that his relationship with the Inquisitor had already gotten around. Not that he was ashamed, quite the opposite, but he was a little worried about the reaction. Without seeming to, he kept his ears open for the whispers, although he suspected Ren would get the brunt of any disapproval. He was widely known to have appetites; no doubt rumor had put him in bed with her long before this. She was supposed to have standards, to represent the Inquisition in bed as well as out, and he was certainly not what most people wanted to see in an Inquisitor’s paramour.

On the other hand, it was pretty damn hot to be openly known as the person sharing her bed, the only one since the Inquisition began, and he could feel himself walking a little taller, holding his shoulders a little straighter, as he left the main hall, just knowing that people were watching him and knowing that he was the Inquisitor’s man. Who wouldn’t have preened just a little, thinking of that woman upstairs waiting for him?

As he stood at the top of the steps, looking to see if any of the Chargers were out, he felt a presence at his shoulder, and he looked down, wondering what Blackwall would have to say.

The false Warden was silent for a few minutes, then he said, “It’s been you all along, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“I should’ve known.” There was another silence as Blackwall looked him over, clearly wondering what in the Void the Inquisitor was thinking. “You know I don’t trust you.”

“Yeah.”

“Once a Qunari, always a Qunari. Nothing stopping you from betraying her.”

“You would know more about that than I would,” the Iron Bull said. He despised Blackwall for deserting his men the way he had; Ren might forgive the man, but he couldn’t. “I’ve never lied to her—or anyone—about who I am.”

“I suppose I deserved that.”

He had, but the Iron Bull never believed in kicking a man when he was down, so he kept silent.

Blackwall muttered under his breath, “If she had only met me first—“

The Iron Bull resented the implication on Ren’s behalf. “Did she ever say ‘yes’ to you? If she had …”

“You’d have done the gentlemanly thing and bowed out?” Blackwall asked sarcastically.

“Yes.” The Iron Bull looked down at the other man. Their gazes held, then Blackwall looked away.

“Then maybe you do care for her.”

“That’s for her to decide.” With some relief, the Iron Bull saw Krem coming out of the tavern. His second-in-command’s cheeky grin said he knew everything, and that he would be ribbing his chief unmercifully. The Iron Bull grinned back, ready as always to give as good as he got. With a curt nod for Blackwall, he headed down the stairs to the sparring ring.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren had a hard time focusing on her work. She kept catching herself staring off into space, starry-eyed and smiling, and having to drag her attention back to the papers on her desk.

In her distraction, she almost missed the War Room meeting, and found herself scrambling to pull her clothes on and get down the stairs before her advisors could send a search party out for her. She had nearly forgotten what Cullen and Josephine had seen yesterday … until she burst through the door and met Cullen’s eyes and saw the bright red flush that stole over his features.

The heat of a matching blush rushed up Ren’s face. She looked hastily away from Cullen. Josephine was pink-cheeked, too. Leliana watched all three of them and then burst into merry laughter.

“Anyone would think all three of you were virgins,” she teased them.

Any questions Ren had about Cullen and Leliana’s relationship were answered by the deepening of his color, his ears now practically glowing, almost as red as Leliana’s hair. “In-Inquisitor,” he stammered.

Ren couldn’t help it; she had to laugh, as well, and they all dissolved into laughter together. 

At last they managed to get themselves under control. Ren cleared her throat. “So … is there going to be a lecture?”

Leliana and Josephine glanced at one another. Josephine shrugged. “It would not have been my choice, Inquisitor, from a diplomatic standpoint … but it could have been worse. … Or so I imagine.”

“Besides,” Leliana said, smiling at Ren, “it was never our intention to make you someone other than who you are, or to ask you to live entirely alone. If your feelings have progressed to the point that you can no longer suppress them—then I believe we must be happy for you.”

Cullen nodded, his eyes resting on Leliana as if her words held a special meaning for him.

Ren sighed, relieved, although there was a reserve in Josephine’s expression and a look in Leliana’s eyes that said their inner thoughts didn’t quite match their words. She decided to pretend not to have seen beneath the surface; there were more important issues at stake than who she slept with. “Good. Now, to business?”

“Please,” Cullen said fervently, and they all chuckled again.

They finished up the meeting, taking slightly longer than usual so that they could make sure they covered everything they would need to discuss while Ren was in the Western Approach, far on the other side of Orlais, and then broke up.

The rest of Ren’s day was filled with preparations to leave in the morning. By the time she climbed the stairs to her room that night she was exhausted, but everything was ready to go except her own small pack of supplies.

She stopped at the top of the stairs, frowning as she surveyed the sight in front of her. Her usually fairly neat quarters weren’t so today—pants and harnesses and books and mugs and various other items were strewn across the room, and the Iron Bull was standing in the midst of the mess, looking at her ruefully.

“Hey, _kadan_. Either I have a lot more stuff than I thought, or your room is a lot smaller than it looks.”

“Or some combination of the two.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind? What, you moving your stuff in? Not in the least. Saves me having to ask you to.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, it seemed … presumptuous?”

He crossed the room to her, tilting her face up toward him, his grey eye serious. “Nothing you could ask me would be presumptuous.”

Ren couldn’t resist; she widened her eyes and smiled and asked, “So, when were you thinking would be a good time for the wedding, then?”

His face froze, his eye going blank.

She held her innocent expression as long as she could, but he was so petrified her laughter couldn’t be held back for long.

The Iron Bull’s eye narrowed, and he frowned. “You’re evil. I think you must be punished.”

“Oh, no!” Ren said. “Are you going to spank me?”

He chuckled, deep and dark and rich, and all thoughts of packing flew out of Ren’s mind as her body flushed with heat. “You’re going to wish I’d spanked you when I get done with you. Get your clothes off.”

“I’ll never find them again in all this mess,” Ren objected, stripping hastily. 

He tied her hands tightly in front of her with a strip of silk he took from his pocket. “What have I said about your smart mouth?”

Ren grinned, looking up at him through her lashes. “That you love it wrapped around your cock?” She licked her lips ostentatiously.

“Fuck, yeah. On your knees, human.”

Obediently Ren knelt, the movement awkward with her hands tied, which was part of the punishment. With her teeth she managed the buttons on the front of his pants, a task made more difficult by the way his cock was already straining against the fabric, and took him into her mouth as deep as she could go. The Iron Bull grabbed a handful of her hair and used it to set her rhythm.

The smell and taste of him, the sound of his deep groans of pleasure, were all around her, and Ren could feel the ache inside her building, her hips thrusting into the empty air in time with the movements of her mouth.

Seeing her frustrated gyrations, the Iron Bull pulled her off him, growling softly at her. “You want my hands on you, my mouth?”

“Oh, Maker, yes.” Her core contracted at the very thought, making her moan.

“Not gonna happen, smart mouth. Get on the bed.”

Ren hastily did so, knowing from his tone what to expect. She got her knees underneath her, raising her ass into the air for him, wincing at the first smack of his belt on her skin. He rarely went for the belt, unless she had been particularly mouthy, and the crack and bite of it increased the throbbing between her legs. “Please, Bull, I take it back.” She thrust backward, arching her back to meet the belt coming down, and gasped at the sensation. “Please. Maker, just touch me.”

The belt landed on the other side of the room. Roughly the Iron Bull shoved her legs farther apart and then his head was between them, the tips of his horns scoring the comforter. Not that Ren cared, with his tongue slowly licking from bottom to top, just missing the aching nub where she most wanted his touch. She groaned in frustration, trying to press back against him, but he moved his tongue before she could shift far enough. 

He took his time, little touches and slow licks until Ren thought she might go out of her mind with need. At last, when she’d been reduced to incoherent begging, he slid out from under her with a smack on the rear, and positioned himself behind her. His first thrust went deep, and Ren cried out with her pleasure. The Iron Bull wrapped his arms around her, pulling her up so that her back was against his chest, moving inside her deep and slow.

Ren leaned her head back against his shoulder, her whole body practically vibrating with the pleasure coursing through her. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t keep her eyes open, could barely breathe as all her being focused on the intensity of her approaching climax.

The Iron Bull’s breathing was harsh in her ear, and she could feel the heat of his breath across her cheek as he panted in time with his thrusts, his pace increasing. He reached down, his fingers sliding across her, and Ren exploded, her heart pounding and her fingers and toes tingling. With a shout, the Iron Bull finished, too, and they collapsed onto the bed together.

As they lay there, he lifted her hands, untying the scarf and kissing the red marks left behind.

Ren was too sated and sleepy to move. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the gradually slowing rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear, her mind blissfully blank.

“We should pack,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that sent a pleasant shiver through her.

“Mm-hm.”

“Or sleep.”

“MM-hm.”

The Iron Bull chuckled. “I’ll pack, you can sleep.”

Ren shook her head, clinging to him harder, not wanting to let him go. 

He sighed, his arm sliding around her, his fingers trailing across her back. 

“You ever wish you could sleep on your side?” she asked.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“It’s … comfortable?”

“Looks weird.” The Iron Bull chuckled. “Besides, have you seen me? Balancing on my side is hard enough; sleeping that way? Doesn’t sound fun.”

“Huh. Strange, really; I just take it for granted.”

“Yeah, I get that. Like you take low doorways for granted.”

“That, too.” Ren smiled. “Not easy being you?”

“Not always.”

She smiled, reaching up to kiss him, which led to a second round, which led to them both falling into an exhausted sleep, which led to a very hasty packing job the next morning, and his things still strewn all over the place when they left. Ren hoped Flissa wouldn’t take it upon herself to clean it all up; that was above and beyond the call of duty.


	44. A Pretty Good Day

Ren lay in the tent, her head pillowed on the Iron Bull’s chest. It was beastly hot as they neared the Western Approach, and she wished for a cool ocean breeze, or the mountain winds of Skyhold.

“Can’t sleep, _kadan_?”

“I’ll get there. You want me to move? I know it’s hot.”

“Don’t you dare.” His arm closed around her, holding her against him. Sleeping with her next to him was an intoxicating new pleasure, and he didn’t intend to miss a moment of it. “If I’m going to have to sleep apart from you once we get to the Approach, I’m going to get as much of you as I can beforehand.”

“Sleep apart?” Ren lifted her head, frowning at him. “Who said anything about that?”

“We’ll be at the Lost Spring Canyon camp tomorrow. You’re not going to want the soldiers to see the Inquisitor sharing a tent with one of her companions, are you?”

“Why not?”

It was his turn to frown. Did she not know how that would look?

Ren apparently read the question in his face, because she grimaced impatiently, sitting up all the way. “There is nothing about being with someone that is beneath the Inquisitor’s dignity.”

“Yeah, and if you were with someone more … normal, that would fly. But you’re with me, and people will think it’s only for the sex.”

“They’ll learn. And besides, who cares if they think that?” She frowned at him. 

He groaned. “You’re not thinking ahead, _kadan_.” 

“No. I’m not. I’ve got enough problems today without borrowing tomorrow’s. The Approach is crawling with darkspawn and Venatori—those are my job this week. If any of the soldiers are worried about the political implications of who I sleep with, then they’re in the wrong post and we should tell Cullen to reassign them.”

The Iron Bull appreciated her dedication to her duties, but he wished she would show as much devotion to the political aspects of the job. Not that he was being much help in that arena, he admitted to himself. A smart man, one with her best interests and those of the Inquisition in mind, wouldn’t have let things get this far. But he was damned if he could see how he could have stopped it.

Ren forestalled any further comments by draping herself across his chest and biting his nipple. “Besides,” she murmured, kissing her way across his chest to the other nipple, “Sera and Dorian got used to it. Everyone else will, too.”

It was a fallacious argument, really. Dorian had barely raised an eyebrow when it became clear they were intending to share the same tent, and Sera had looked from the Iron Bull to Ren and back again and said, “But … how can you still walk?” and then decided that wasn’t a question she really wanted an answer to. They were hardly the same as a camp full of soldiers who wanted their Inquisitor to live up to a certain standard. But with Ren’s naked body moving on top of his, the Iron Bull was hardly about to argue the point. He flipped her over onto her back, his hand finding the heat between her legs.

She moaned in pleasure, and he said, “There’s as good a reason as any not to share a tent.”

“What is? Bull, don’t stop!”

He didn’t, and chuckled as she moaned again. “This. Those are not Inquisitorial sounds you make, hot as they are.”

“I can be quiet.” She sank her teeth in her lip, sighing softly as he moved two fingers inside her.

“Uh-huh.” 

“You don’t believe me?”

He moved his fingers again, and she bit off a groan.

“Fine, then,” Ren said breathlessly, reaching for him, stroking firmly, the way he liked it. The motion startled him into a strangled sound of pleasure, and she laughed. “See? It’s not just me.”

“I can be silent as the grave,” he said. “Ben-Hassrath, remember?”

Ren rolled her eyes. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to get you one of those mabari the Fereldans are all so besotted with and name it Ben-Hassrath.”

That was ridiculous enough that he stopped her mouth with a long kiss. They kept teasing each other, testing the other’s resolve to keep silent, until they were sated and too sleepy to continue the discussion. The following night in the Inquisition camp, Ren stood up after dinner and, in front of all the soldiers, said, “Coming to bed, dear?” in a voice dripping with honey, neatly precluding any protests the Iron Bull might have made, and nearly making Dorian choke on the last of his nug stew.

The soldiers appeared to accept the situation with a minimum of gossip, which Ren took as proving her point.

And then it was just like any other expedition. Miles and miles of sand getting in their boots; the sun beating down on their heads; things that needed killing popping up seemingly from nowhere. The Venatori had small camps scattered all over the Western Approach, and it was hard to tell who took the most pleasure out of killing them, the Iron Bull or Dorian.

In the area around Griffon’s Wing Keep, darkspawn wandered. They weren’t Ren’s favorite—the taint in their bodies meant letting Dorian and Sera do the best part of the work from a distance, and the clean-up was a pain—but the Iron Bull seemed to enjoy the challenge.

Then, buried in the depths of an abandoned fortress, they found a giant. He was crazed with red lyrium and bound by the invisible chains of his Venatori masters … and the Iron Bull’s grin threatened to split his face in two.

“See?” Ren said to him as they readied themselves for battle. “I told you I’d get you a giant.”

“Vints, darkspawn, and a giant. That is a pretty good day.” He took a deep breath and roared a mighty challenge at the giant, who roared back in kind, and then battle was joined.

More Venatori and another giant waited for them outside, and when they were all down the whole group of them were so exhausted they could barely stagger far enough away to avoid the smell before making a hasty camp. 

Sera and the Iron Bull decided they were too hungry to sleep; Ren was the opposite, so tired she wasn’t sure she could chew. She threw herself on her bedroll, drifting away almost immediately to the smell of whatever it was they were cooking.

Dimly, she heard Sera’s voice. “So, bedding the Inquisitor, eh?”

And then the Iron Bull’s deep, rich chuckle. “Well, mostly it’s up against the wall.”

Ren smiled drowsily and was asleep before she could hear Sera’s response.

The rest of the Inquisition caught up to them the next day, setting up a forward camp in the courtyard of the abandoned fortress, and Ren and her team rested for a day letting a few minor injuries heal before heading back east. They were mostly done in the Approach, but she had one more item on her list before they left.

In a deep valley on the edge of the Approach, she and the others laid out the lures Frederic of Serault, the local draconologist, had shown them how to make, and in a surprisingly short time they heard the scream overhead of the Approach’s very own dragon.

The Iron Bull screamed back, his face lit with delight. He grabbed Ren’s arm, pulling her against him as the dragon wheeled above them, and kissed her, fierce and hard. “Boss,” he said, “I just want you to know; you’re the best.”

“My pleasure.” Ren’s pulse was already pounding, not just from the excitement of the fight to come but also from the memory of what had happened the last time they’d killed a dragon.

Sera was hopping from foot to foot with excitement while peppering the wheeling dragon with arrows. Dorian seemed less enthusiastic than the rest of them, but he was dutifully attacking the dragon with magic.

The scent of scorched dragon flesh filled the air, along with the dragon’s shrieks of pain and a shower of blood from where one of Sera’s arrows had scored a hit in the soft skin where the dragon’s foreleg joined its shoulder.

With a shriek, the dragon breathed a column of fire along the ground, and they all scrambled to throw themselves out of the way.

Realizing that his fire spells were doing nothing but irritate the dragon, Dorian switched to ice, focusing on the wings.

The dragon’s circles overhead grew slower, the increasingly heavy coating of ice on the wings weighing it down. At last, it crashed to the earth.

Sera called out, “That’ll serve you, lizard-breath!”

The Iron Bull laughed. “Come on, _kadan_.”

Ren was already ahead of him, her daggers out. She dodged a heavy swing of the dragon’s head, ducking under and scoring the underside of the neck. Dragon’s blood, hot and stinging, dripped on her as she moved. Behind her, she heard the Iron Bull’s voice, shouting “ _Taarsidath-an halsaam_!”, and the thud of his sword against the dragon’s hide.

The dragon fought with tooth and claw and tail and sprays of fiery breath, and the four of them had more than a few bleeding wounds and scorch marks by the time her head fell at the Iron Bull’s feet with her last gasping breath. 

Dorian patched up the worst of the wounds, a gash across Ren’s ribs and a nasty burn on Sera’s arm, with the last magical energy he had left. “I’ll go back to the camp, get some soldiers and some healing poultices.”

Ren nodded. They’d only had a few poultices on them, and they had used them in the middle of the fight. “Thank you, Dorian.” Over his shoulder, she caught the Iron Bull’s eye, which was practically glowing with intensity. “Erm … Sera, do you want to go with him?”

The elf looked at the two of them. “Oh, I see. We go away and you two get down to the naughty bits. Can’t say I blame you. Dragons are hot.” 

“Oh, yeah,” the Iron Bull said heavily.

“Got it. Come on, sparky,” Sera said to Dorian. “Let’s get a move on.”

They were barely out of sight before the Iron Bull had Ren in his arms, his mouth hot and demanding on hers. She kissed him back with equal ferocity.

With frantic movements they rearranged clothing, just enough so he could shove her back against the fallen dragon’s still-warm body and take her hard and fast. Ren held on, her short, jagged nails scraping the skin of his upper arms, her teeth buried in his shoulder, her legs wrapped as far around his hips as they could go. The climax rushed over her like the fiery breath of the vanquished dragon, leaving her limp and sated in the Iron Bull’s arms.

And none too soon; she could hear voices as Sera and Dorian brought the soldiers back.

“I bet she ran, just to get a good look,” she said to the Iron Bull as they were hurriedly putting their clothes back together.

“Seems a shame not to give her one.”

“Knowing Sera, it’s not you she wanted to see.”

“Trust me, _kadan_ , having seen you, I don’t blame her. I’d hate to miss that show.”

She smiled at him affectionately. “Fortunately for you, you never have to.”

The Iron Bull reached out, rubbing a strand of her silky hair between his fingers. “Which makes me pretty much the luckiest fucking guy in Thedas.”


	45. The War Table

“Hey, _kadan_ , you up for something new tonight?”

Ren looked at the Iron Bull with narrowed eyes. He had that particular grin that usually made for a long night. “How new?”

“A little expedition.”

She wondered where he had in mind. Her balcony, the forward camp, the bushes behind the tavern … Ren wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for more exhibitionism than that. She was still the Inquisitor, after all. “How much trouble will this get me in with Josephine?”

“Josephine? None at all. Mostly. Cullen, on the other hand …”

“You want me to do something that’s going to piss Cullen off? I don’t think so.”

“Not piss off. Just … irritate. He won’t even see us. Come on,” he wheedled.

Ren grinned. He was so big and so obnoxious you wouldn’t think he’d be so irresistible … but he really was. “Someday I’m going to learn how to say no to you.”

“But today’s not that day, is it? Ah, _ataashi_ , you’re a woman in a million. Let’s go.”

“Wait, Bull—“ Ren gestured at her robe, which was all she was wearing. 

“Nobody’ll see you. I promise.”

“All right.” Half-reluctant and half-excited, she let herself be led down the stairs and snuck through the empty keep. For a moment, she thought he might want to do it on the Skyhold throne, which might have been too much even for her … and possibly too much for the throne, she thought, amused by the image. But then he stopped in front of the door to Josephine’s office, and beyond, into the War Room. Ren swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Cullen will kill us.”

“Only if we make a mess.” His grin was challenging this time, and Ren turned the knob and opened the door. Josephine’s office was silent, the fire banked for the night, and the long hall down to the War Room dark and filled with rubble. Ren was used to skirting it all, but the Iron Bull stubbed his toe a couple of times on fallen bricks. “This some kind of primitive burglar alarm?” he grumbled.

“Big strong warrior, can’t take a couple bricks to the toe?” Ren teased him.

His hands found her shoulders in the darkness, pulling her against him, and his mouth was hot on her ear, whispering, “You’re going to regret that smart mouth later.”

Ren shivered, her heart already beating faster and she hadn’t even opened the door. Reaching behind her, she fumbled with the latch, both of them nearly falling through when it opened.

In the light of a single candle he lit in its sconce on the wall, the Iron Bull studied the War Table. “Oh, yeah, this’ll do,” he said.

“You move any one of those pieces the slightest bit, Cullen will know.”

“I’m not moving a thing, _kadan_ ,” the Iron Bull said in mock innocence. “I guess you’ll just have to exercise some self-control, won’t you?”

“If only I’d been trained by the Ben-Hassrath.” Ren gave an exaggerated sigh, and then a squeal as he grabbed her from behind, stripping off her robe. His hands on her breasts were firm, just the slightest bit rough, and they felt so good. 

“Did I tell you that you could keep mouthing off?” he growled in her ear.

“No.”

“Then shut up.” He tied her wrists in front of her, then shoved her over the table, her hands dangling over the side in front of her, and kicked her legs apart. 

Ren squirmed just a little, her breasts hurting from being smashed flat against the table, and the Iron Bull reached under her, gently shifting them so she would be more comfortable. Her nipples rubbed against the cool wood at the end of the table, where there were fewer pieces to disturb. 

“Mm, Inquisitor, what a sight,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. He squeezed her ass, admiring the view before he pinched out the single candle. He could see well enough for his purpose, and they didn’t need anyone noticing a light through the windows and wondering what was going on. 

The Iron Bull bent over Ren, trailing his fingers slowly down her spine. In the long nights they had spent together, he had learned what she liked, what she loved, and what sent her into an absolute frenzy. He used it all tonight, bringing her to the edge of completion and then stepping back over and over again. Blunt fingernails on the backs of her legs, his mouth at her ear and on her neck, his fingers in maddening circles that were just light enough to tease, solid spanks on the firmness of that gorgeous ass, his tongue dancing around her entrance as she begged, trying to move while he held her still on the table.

At last, near desperation himself, he seated himself deeply within her, stretching over her body to grip her hands in his. “Just think,” he whispered in her ear, feeling her shake beneath him as he withdrew—slowly—and thrust—more slowly still. “Tomorrow, you’ll be standing here, wearing those tight Inquisitor pants of yours, acting all official as you move pieces around and decide the fate of half of Thedas … but what you’ll be thinking of is how good you felt tonight, lying here stretched naked across the table with me inside you.”

“Bull,” Ren moaned. He pushed into her again, lazily, taking his time, savoring each movement. His hips were pressing her against the table, almost … almost … She needed him to move, needed …

And then there were footsteps outside in the hall, a woman’s low voice that sounded as though it could be Leliana’s, and a hand on the door handle. Ren’s eyes widened, imagining being caught here, like this, and she called out, “Busy!”, her voice a strangled croak.

There was silence from the hall, then a laugh, most definitely Leliana’s. “Our apologies, Inquisitor. Do continue your … work.” A second chuckle accompanied her words, this one Cullen’s, and Ren’s eyes widened impossibly more. Could they have been—on the War Table—really? No. She couldn’t believe it.

“Guess we weren’t the only ones with this idea, eh, _kadan_?” the Iron Bull said in her ear. 

“Guess not,” Ren said breathlessly.

“Good for Cullen. I knew there was a dragon in there somewhere. Now. Where were we? Oh, yeah …” And he thrust again, harder this time, so that Ren cried out. He moved rhythmically now, pushing her closer and closer. Ren was calling his name, begging for more, pleading with him not to stop, and he groaned above her. 

The pleasure hit her like a tidal wave, washing over and over her, and all she could do was hold on as he finished, as the waves ebbed, leaving her trembling there on the War Table. The Iron Bull’s head rested on her shoulder, his breathing slowly going back to normal.

“Bull. Can’t breathe,” she whispered eventually, and he moved off of her, helping her up, untying her hands, and finding her fallen robe. Quietly they made their way back down the hall to the main room of the keep. 

As they passed the throne, the Iron Bull nudged her in the ribs. “That’s next.”

Ren looked at the delicate chair. “It’ll never hold you.”

He pulled her against him, growling. “Then get a bigger one.”

Chuckling, Ren said, “I’ll consider it.”

The next day, in the daily War Room meeting, Ren had the Void of a time keeping a straight face, and studiously avoided meeting Cullen’s eyes or Leliana’s. It didn’t help that Cullen kept frowning at the pieces, looking to see if anything had moved, or that Leliana kept smirking.

They all managed to pay enough attention to a clearly unimpressed Morrigan to learn about an ancient elven mirror, an eluvian, hidden deep within the Arbor Wilds. It was Morrigan’s belief that Corypheus wanted to harness the power of that eluvian to be able to break down the barriers between the world and the Fade. 

Ren found herself walking out with Cullen, and she kept step with him through the main hall and out to the stairs down to the courtyard. It was embarrassing to have him know so much about her sex life. She respected Cullen as much as, possibly more than, anyone she had ever met, and she wanted him to see her as someone to take seriously—but how could he, when he kept walking in on her in compromising positions?

“I find it odd,” he said abruptly, “that I was unaware of your … relationship with the Iron Bull for such a long time.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” He gave her a sidelong look as they climbed the stairs to the battlements. “Now that I do know, I can’t think how I missed the signs. The private jokes, the way you look at one another, the way you immediately find each other as soon as you walk into a room. It’s … quite sweet, actually.”

Now Ren really was blushing. “I didn’t know I did any of that.” 

Cullen laughed. “May I add my apologies for the interruption of your … activities last night?”

Her skin must be positively flaming red, she thought. Then she remembered that that particular conversation could go both ways. “And my apologies for disrupting your plans.” She grinned at him.

It was Cullen’s turn to blush. “Yes, well …”

“She seems to have been good for you,” Ren offered. “Has that … helped? With the lyrium, I mean?”

Cullen looked thoughtful. “Do you know, I think it has. Just to … well, the nightmares, you know, and having someone there to put them to rest.”

“Do you think—well, I don’t mean to pry.”

“You can ask. I don’t mind.”

Ren nodded. “Do you think you’ll … continue, you and Leliana? Past Corypheus and as the Inquisition changes?”

“Hm.” Cullen stopped, leaning against the stone wall and looking out over the mountains. “I don’t imagine so, if I’m being honest. Leliana is strongly considering putting herself forward as the new Divine, and even if she doesn’t, she is very concerned with rebuilding the Chantry. Which is a laudable goal, but not one I believe I share.”

“You’re not in a hurry to remake the Templar order?”

“No. I like it here. With the Inquisition, we have the chance to do something new, to change the old ways and move forward, and I’m proud to be part of that.” He glanced at her. “What of you? Do you think you’ll continue, as you put it?”

Ren felt unaccountably shy. She had exchanged the dragon’s tooth with the Iron Bull, and she meant that—wherever they went, always together. But making some kind of plan for the future was … not something she’d ever done before. 

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said. “Ren. May I speak to you as an older brother might?”

Thinking of Cadoc, who had never in his life spoken to her as an older brother, and probably wouldn’t know how, Ren smiled. “I would be honored.”

“As Inquisitor, you have a great deal of power, and you can use that power to ignore conventions for a time—but not forever. And the world may be changing, but it is not changing fast enough to truly understand a … relationship with a Qunari. At some point, you’re going to have a difficult choice to make.”

Ren frowned. She didn’t want to think about that; the rules of society made her impatient. “I suppose so,” she said reluctantly.

Cullen was watching her, sympathy and affection in his eyes. “I just would like to say that when that day comes, you can count on my support, whatever you decide.”

“Thank you, Cullen. That means a lot.” Ren paused, then added, “You know the reverse is always true as well, I hope.”

“You have amply demonstrated your support,” he assured her. “Without you—I might very well have gone back to the lyrium. I will not forget your faith in me. It has meant … very much.”

Ren leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment affectionately, and was surprised to feel his arm close around her, pulling her against him for a brief hug. It occurred to her how strange it was that the worst day of her life, the day she had been dropped from a tear in the sky into the middle of a world at war, had brought her so much that was good. If there was a Maker, he had a sense of humor … and possibly a sense of compassion, as well.


	46. The Web of Diplomacy

Ren and Josephine both frowned at the letter from Ferelden’s king. Ren had met him briefly only once, and then when he was royally pissed about Tevinters and mages and Inquisition forces and the mess they had all made of Redcliffe, but all her correspondence with him afterward had been genial. “If he’s that concerned about meeting with Celene, why don’t we have them both here?” she suggested.

“That would have been my recommendation as well,” Josephine agreed, “but Leliana did not seem to like the idea. Something about Morrigan’s presence in Skyhold, or so I gathered. She was not forthcoming with details.”

“That complicates things.” Ren sighed, straightening up. “And we can’t spare you to go to Val Royeaux and hold his hand through the negotiations.”

“No.”

“Ah! I have it,” Ren said. She smiled at Josephine. “What about your … ahem … friend, Teyrn Cousland? He’s high enough in Fereldan hierarchy that Celene will respect him, he’s well-liked and well-spoken enough that Alistair will listen to him, and he seems like a man who can keep his temper. Or what I saw of him seemed that way,” she added teasingly. Fergus Cousland’s visit had been a brief one, and he had spent most of it closeted with Josephine.

The Ambassador blushed faintly. “That’s a very good idea, Inquisitor.”

“I imagine you can convince him?”

“I believe so.” Josephine looked up at Ren. “You know, you really are making great strides in diplomacy. There was a time when I wondered … but you have done very well.”

“Thank you.” Ren smiled. Diplomacy was far from being her favorite part of the job, but she tried hard to do the Inquisition credit and not to undo all of Josephine’s good work. She was glad her efforts were bearing fruit. She was still far more comfortable fighting things, although her most recent trip outside Skyhold, chasing Corypheus’s general, Samson, had been something of a fiasco. Samson had anticipated their arrival and fled with most of his men, leaving behind a burnt ruin, a dying Tranquil, and a mocking note for Cullen. Ren didn’t know which had infuriated Cullen most. 

They had found some broken tools that appeared to have been used by Maddox, the Tranquil, on Samson’s red lyrium armor. Dagna thought with some work she could use the tools to create a weapon against the armor, which would be very useful when they went against Samson and Corypheus in the Arbor Wilds.

Josephine’s gaze turned grave. “I do not need to remind you that this liaison with the Iron Bull has become somewhat problematic.”

Ren sighed. “So I’ve heard. But I still don’t understand why.”

“For one thing, there is a certain draw to an Inquisitor who is unattached.”

“I am not a bargaining chip!”

Josephine smiled. “Of course you are. As am I. As is Cullen, little as he likes to admit it. Additionally, there is the matter of trust. Few nobles trust the Qunari, even one as … separated from his culture as the Iron Bull. If you are spending most of your time with him, there are questions regarding your allegiances and what influences you may be under.”

“But he isn’t like that,” Ren protested. She flushed under Josephine’s scrutiny. 

“There is time yet, Inquisitor. No one asks you to make any sacrifices today.” Josephine spoke kindly, but the message was clear. Someday, the sacrifice would be asked.

A knock came at the door, followed by Flissa’s head poking in. “Inquisitor? I’m sorry to disturb you, but you have a visitor.”

“I do?”

“Yes. Lady Bouchard?”

Demelza? Here? Ren groaned. She had really hoped her sister’s suggestion of a visit would be forgotten. Apparently she had been overly optimistic. “My sister,” she said to Josephine by way of explanation.

“Yes. I know who she is, although I was not aware that she had planned a visit.”

“Neither was I. She mentioned something about it in passing at Halamshiral, but I never thought she would actually show up.” 

Josephine stood up, smoothing her skirt. “Perhaps we should go and welcome her.”

Ren sighed, following the Ambassador out of the office to the main keep, where Demelza was in the process of sending back the tea because it wasn’t properly scented.

“Lady Bouchard!” Josephine hurried toward her. “Allow me to order you something more to your liking.”

“Indeed.” Demelza looked past Josephine to Ren, her quick glance making an obvious assessment of Ren’s jacket and pants and what they must have cost, and making it equally obvious that she disapproved. “I appear to have caught you on an … off day.”

“No,” Ren said cheerfully, “this is a fairly typical day. Or it was,” she added.

“Pity.”

“Are you staying long, sister dear?” Ren asked.

“Yes, Lady Bouchard, how long may we hope to keep you as our guest?” Josephine glanced warningly in Ren’s direction. Apparently the syrupy tone she had been using was not fooling the Ambassador any more than it was fooling Demelza.

“I just wish to see that you people are taking adequate care of my beloved baby sister.” Demelza’s tone was equally sweet, and her smile to accompany it just as false.

Ren interpreted the comment to mean Demelza wanted to know what being related to the Inquisitor could do for her and, by extension, for the rest of the family. Although she wasn’t entirely sure how much contact Demelza had with the other members of the family. Their other two sisters, Ebrel and Lowena, had large families in Tantervale and Hossberg far north in the Anderfels, but Cadoc, Ren’s older brother, still lived at home with their father and was very much under their father’s thumb.

“They take excellent care of me, Demelza. Plenty of exercise, fresh air—would you like to come with me on an expedition to the Arbor Wilds? It should be most stimulating. I understand it’s largely made up of untamed wilderness.”

“How very apt for you, my dear.” Demelza settled more comfortably in her chair. “Perhaps I will have to find a way to entertain myself here in your charming little Skyhold while you are away.”

Oh, no. Ren decided right then that either she’d get Demelza out of her hair long before she had to leave, or she’d delay her trip if necessary, but she was not about to leave her sister here in Skyhold while she was gone.

“Tell me,” Demelza said, leaning toward Ren. “Is that Varric Tethras I see writing there?”

“Yes, Varric is a treasure.” Josephine smiled. “He does keep us all so entertained. The other day, I got a sneak peek at a new chapter of his latest book.”

“You did?” Demelza appeared genuinely impressed. “What can you tell me about it?”

Ren, reminded by Josephine’s comment of another book-related task she wanted to talk to Varric about, drifted away from her sister, feeling only a mild pang of guilt at leaving Josephine stranded there with Demelza. They would probably have more to talk about than Ren could add, anyway.

“Rusty!” Varric put his pen down as she approached. “Is that your sister?”

“Oh, no,” Ren groaned. “Does everyone know that already?”

“Rumors fly fast and furious. I heard she was your sister before you knew she was here.”

“That’s how you keep your empire running, by hearing things first. And where you get your ideas, I imagine,” Ren said, nodding toward the manuscript pages. “Speaking of, have you made any progress on the task I assigned you?”

“What, writing a chapter for the Seeker? Rusty, if that had been any more fun, it would have been illegal. I think she’ll love it—it’s got everything. A duel, a falsely accused—“

“Stop! Spoilers!” Ren said, laughing, and Varric chuckled.

“A person finds fans in the most surprising places.”

“What if I told you I read it out loud to the Iron Bull to set the mood?” She grinned at him.

“I’d say I don’t think I needed to know that.”

It occurred to Ren that maybe that was something she should look into; having the Iron Bull read to her, his deep voice rolling over her in long waves … it sounded like the perfect ending to a long day.

She drew her mind away from that idea, enticing though it was. “You ready to take the chapter to her?” she asked Varric.

“What, now? Give a dwarf a moment to get presentable.”

“You know you always look good.”

“Aw, Rusty, flattery will get you a much better role in the next book.” 

“Exactly what I was going for.”

“We getting Tiny?” Varric asked as they strolled out of the keep. “I wouldn’t think he’d want to miss this.”

Ren shook her head regretfully. “He’d be amused; we’d be amused. But Cassandra … I rather doubt it.”

“Yeah, good point.” He lifted a small bound volume out of his pocket. “I hope she likes it.”

“Varric! You’re not nervous, are you?”

“Me? Please.” But he was straightening his tunic in a way that belied his breezy words.

Cassandra put her sword in its sheath as they approached her in the practice ring. “Inquisitor?” She looked suspiciously at the dwarf. “Varric?” Her eyes narrowed. “What have you done now?”

He held the volume up to her. “A peace offering: the next chapter of _Swords & Shields_. I hear you’re a fan.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened as she looked at the little volume. Then she clamped down on her enthusiasm with an obvious effort, glaring at Ren. “This is your doing.”

“None other.” Ren grinned. “Do you really think I’d miss this?”

Varric withdrew the volume slightly when Cassandra didn’t reach for it. “Well, if you’re not interested, you’re not interested.” He sighed dramatically. “Still needs editing, anyway.”

Cassandra was not proof against that tactic, and she called out after him, “Wait!”

Ren saw the twitch of Varric’s jaw as he tried hard not to smile triumphantly. “You’re probably wondering what happens to the Knight-Captain after the last chapter.”

“Nothing should happen to her. She was falsely accused!”

“Well, it turns out the guardsman—“ But he got no farther, because Cassandra snatched the volume out of his hands.

“Don’t tell me!” she said indignantly.

Varric chuckled under his breath, but he mustered up a stern look for the Seeker. “This is the part where you thank the Inquisitor. I don’t normally give up early access to new work like this.” 

“Yes. Thank you, Inquisitor.” Cassandra could hardly take her eyes off the book long enough to look at Ren, and Ren smiled.

“We’ll leave you to it. Happy reading!”

She walked off with Varric in the direction of the tavern. “I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.”

Varric laughed. “I know how you feel.”

Ren was glad to see him looking like his old self again; she hoped that getting back to writing, even on Cassandra’s behalf, had helped him start to heal from the wounds Bianca had inflicted on him.

Sadly, Ren couldn’t hide in the Herald’s Rest all day. A page tracked her down there midway through the afternoon with an invitation on Vivienne’s heavy silver-edged stationery, inviting her to a meal in Vivienne’s quarters that evening, with Demelza. 

Ren decided to dress in her formal uniform, and grumbled her way through the process, to the Iron Bull’s great amusement. He had been with Cole for much of the afternoon, treating the boy to his first visit to what the Bull continued to call a tamassran, and now he was stretched across the bed watching Ren dress and telling her about it.

“So he gets her in the room, and she starts stripping him down, and he asks her about her mother.”

“Of course he did.” Ren grinned, buttoning her jacket, thinking how very much she would prefer just to bring a tray upstairs and eat here with the Iron Bull. 

“And then they sit there for three hours, spending my five royals, while he talks her through her painful childhood and convinces her to go home.”

“Much as you want him to be, he’s just not a real boy yet,” Ren said, not without a passing thought for what it would feel like to have someone talk her through her painful childhood.

“Would you really want him to do that?” the Iron Bull asked her in surprise.

“Are you sure you’re not a spirit?” she asked. She wondered if she would ever get used to how easily he could tell what she was thinking.

“I can read your face, _kadan_.”

“Sometimes that’s disconcerting.”

“Yeah, I get that, but you didn’t answer the question.” 

“No, I didn’t.” Ren put down her gloves and sat on the bed next to him. “Maybe? I mean, there are things I wish I didn’t remember, for sure.”

“But would you be you without them?”

She thought then of Gawen’s pale face. It was hard to remember exactly what his features had looked like; occasional flashes of a nose, or his long eyelashes. Mostly she remembered the paleness of his skin and the wideness of his eyes in his small face. “No. Probably not.”

“Exactly.”

“But if I wasn’t me, I wouldn’t have to have dinner with Demelza.”

“And Madame de Fer.”

“Yes, because that makes things so much better.” She tugged on one of his horns affectionately. “Don’t wait up.”

“Right.”

He would, though; or he would awaken when she came to bed. At least that was a thought that might get her through dinner.

The meal was fairly pleasant. As was typical for Vivienne, the spread was delicious and excellently prepared; she had her own cook and two highly trained elven servants who helped her live in the style to which she preferred to be accustomed. References to Skyhold as “rustic” and “quaint” peppered the conversation a bit more frequently than Ren would have liked, but given the status and expectations of the other two women, she decided not to take the terminology personally.

It was only when they sat in Vivienne’s elegant parlor with glasses of fragrant brandy and cups of thick, dark coffee that the conversation turned in the direction Ren had been waiting for. 

Demelza began it with a discussion of the turmoil in Orlais now that the civil war had been settled, and the way the nobles were jockeying for position with Florianne gone.

Vivienne continued by talking of the mages who now roamed freely about both Orlais and Ferelden, and the need for a strong hand to reestablish the Circles.

Ren stayed silent, waiting. She cared little for who ended up at the top of Orlesian politics; leaving Celene alive on the throne had been decision enough for her. And the mages had more than earned their partnership in the Inquisition with their work at Adamant and within the Inquisition’s ranks. She saw no need to reestablish the Circles. At least, not without a significant redesign of their structure and purpose.

And then the subtlety ended. Demelza, not without her own dollop of Trevelyan impatience, leaned towards Ren. “You are perfectly positioned, sister, to take the reins in your own hands, to guide both Orlais and Ferelden in whatever direction you so choose.”

“I think their respective monarchs are doing quite well in that respect.”

“My dear,” Vivienne said, “Celene is a relic of the past; Alistair little more than a bumpkin.”

“An unmarried bumpkin. And quite attractive, in a burly, brutish manner,” Demelza pointed out, looking speculatively at Ren. 

“So he is.” Vivienne’s large eyes flitted across Ren’s face and settled on Demelza’s. “Once we convince our dear Inquisitor that some men are to be enjoyed in private and others in public, of course.”

The dragon’s tooth at Ren’s throat felt suddenly heavy.

“Imagine that,” Demelza said snidely. “Another disastrous alliance, sister dear?”

“It’s a relationship, not an alliance,” Ren snapped. “Surely I have the right to some happiness.”

The other two women exchanged looks that were a mix of superior, pitying, and calculating, as they tried to determine how best to turn her naivete to their advantage.

Demelza lifted her eyebrows slightly in Vivienne’s direction, and the mage sighed. “The Iron Bull, I’m afraid.”

“The Bull? In a relationship?” Demelza hooted with laughter. “My dear, the man’s a barbarian. A mercenary. Barely worth the expenditure of a single evening,” she said, her eyes glittering maliciously at Ren. She clearly expected her intimate knowledge of him to be news. “I can’t imagine he knows how to spell ‘relationship,’ much less how to conduct one.”

Ren shrugged, refusing to be goaded, and trying not to imagine Demelza in bed with the Iron Bull. She had done enough of that at the Winter Palace. “What you see is what you get.” She smiled to herself, remembering the conversation she’d had with Krem back at the beginning, when he’d said the same thing. She was glad she saw so much in the Iron Bull, because what she’d gotten was more than she’d dreamed possible.

“Nonetheless,” Vivienne put in, “it simply isn’t done, my dear. Not if you intend to attract a more suitable attachment. Someone more of your … status.”

“You think the Iron Bull’s rank matters to me at all?”

“It’s not about rank, darling. It’s about power.” Vivienne was looking at her as though she were a very small child. “You command an army of the faithful, outfitted by the coin of the nobility.”

“An army of the faithful? This is not a Chantry-based organization. It stopped being that when they made me Inquisitor, if it ever truly was.”

Demelza lifted her eyebrows. “That would be news to many people, sister dear, and not welcome news. Thedas is driven by the Chantry. It is not wise to reject them.”

“I don’t have to reject them to keep them from running the Inquisition.”

“Perhaps not,” Vivienne conceded, “but it does little to improve your own standing amongst the nobility. You, my dear, must be a woman commoners aspire to be and to whom the nobles bow.”

“Name me the last person who pulled that off successfully.”

The other two women glanced at one another again. “It is a challenge all great leaders must face, Inquisitor,” Vivienne said.

Ren thought about Hawke, who had put aside the cares of Kirkwall rather than take up the mantle of Viscount. About the Hero of Ferelden, who had quietly disappeared rather than take her place at the side of the King. The nobles would never have accepted a dwarf in that role, even one so admired, but more than that, according to Leliana, it had been to escape the accolades. Could Ren follow in their footsteps, finish her task and quietly take herself off, or was she needed at the front of the Inquisition, to lead it into a new world on the heels of the death of Corypheus? Killing him was easier thought of than accomplished, but someday either she would do it or she would die … and it probably behooved her to consider what she would do if she survived, what she wanted to make of the Inquisition and of her life.

Demelza, sensing that Ren was listening at last, leaned forward, saying intently, “The stories of your accomplishments will spread, sister dear. They are already doing so. And with them comes doubt—can any one person be all the things you are said to be? Are you truly the woman from the tales?”

Vivienne nodded. “They will question what they heard; but they will believe what they see. They must see someone greater than legend.”

“That’s a tall order,” Ren said. “If I can’t live up to it, what can I expect from the disappointed masses?”

“There is nothing more vicious than the public turning on a fallen idol.”

“They will blame you for not being the hero they wanted,” Demelza agreed. “Their anger will be like a hornets’ nest smashed open.”

Ren could imagine it like Sera’s jars of bees, the buzzing swirling around her, and she rubbed her temples, her head suddenly aching. 

“Simple and vicious,” Demelza said. “That describes the common people very well. Respect that, and they are easy to control.”

Troubled, Ren looked at both women. She didn’t want to control the common people; she felt a greater kinship with them than she did with nobles such as the ones she sat with now. “And if that isn’t what I want?”

“You are the Inquisitor,” Vivienne said softly. “That is part of the task you bear, to position the Inquisition amongst the common people as well as among the nobility. What you want is not a priority, not in comparison with what you must do.”

Ren stood up. “You’ve both given me a lot to think about. I’ll … have to give it some consideration.” She bowed to Vivienne. “Thank you for a fine meal. Demelza, I am certain I will see you tomorrow?”

“Naturally, sister dear.”

She left the room, not seeing the troubled looks or hearing the whispers the two women exchanged behind her, and went to her quarters. The Iron Bull was sprawled on his stomach across the bed, his breathing deep and even, the covers tangled around his legs.

Ren stripped her uniform off and sat down next to him, running her fingers along a scar on the back of his calf. She bent to kiss it.

Beneath her fingers, the Iron Bull stirred, turning his head to look at her, his horn scraping along the sheets, as she moved on to kiss another scar, small and round like a puncture wound, just above the back of his knee.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked.

“No.” She switched to the other leg, tugging the sheet away and finding a narrow scar along the side of his calf. She traced it with a fingernail before kissing it.

“You trying to kiss all my scars, _kadan_?”

“Seems like a worthy goal. You mind?”

“No, but it’ll take you a long time,” he said, shivering a little as she found a jagged scar on his inner thigh, running her tongue along it.

“You have somewhere else to be?” Ren murmured.

“Now that you mention it … no.”

“Then shut up.” She moved to a scar on his lower back, and the Iron Bull lay still and let her work her way over the rest of his body, sensing that she needed to take her mind off this evening’s discussion with her sister and Madame de Fer. He wanted to know what they had talked about, but he was sure she would tell him about it later. In the meantime, lying here and being driven slowly mad by the light touches of her fingers, lips, and tongue sounded like a pretty damn fine way to spend a night to him.


	47. Conversations

The Iron Bull woke early the next morning, with Ren tucked against him. He shifted to his side, careful to avoid disturbing her, and looked down at her face, lit by the pale light of the dawn. Carefully he brushed back a strand of red hair so that he could see her better.

She stirred, opening her eyes to look at him. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Something wrong?”

He shook his head. “You’re beautiful.”

Ren smiled, lifting a hand to trail her fingers along the edge of his jaw. “So are you.” Perhaps there were people who wouldn’t think so, with his scars and his pale skin and those horns, but that was their problem.

He kissed her then, soft and slow and sweet, before drawing back to look at her once more. “I’ve never woken up with someone every morning before. Or any morning, for that matter. It doesn’t suck.”

Ren put a hand on his chest. “Hold that thought.” She slipped out of bed. 

The Iron Bull waited until she came back from the little room in the corner of her quarters, sniffing suspiciously at her breath as she got back into bed. “You cleaned your teeth,” he said accusingly.

“Among other things.”

He growled, throwing the covers off and getting out of bed in his turn. “That’s cheating.”

Then it was Ren’s turn to wait until he came back, settling his bulk atop her and looking into her eyes. “Now. Where were we?”

She rubbed her thumb along the black beard at the edge of his jaw. “Somewhere around here, I believe.”

The Iron Bull tilted his head into her touch, his eye closing. “Morvoren.”

“Iron Bull.” She frowned. “What was your string of numbers?”

“What?”

“You said once your name under the Qun was just a string of numbers. What was it?”

He felt shy; no one had used that designation for him for years, not since he was very small, and he wasn’t under the Qun any longer. “I’m not that man, _kadan_. It isn’t important.”

“I think it is. It’s part of you. Tell me?”

She asked him for so few things, he couldn’t deny her. “It was … 117421842.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“I wouldn’t recommend you call me that.” He dipped his head, catching her lips for a long kiss. One hand found her breast, cupping and massaging it.

But Ren couldn’t let the conversation go. “Krem calls you ‘Chief’; Gatt called you ‘Hissrad’.”

“Yeah.”

“What other names have you had?”

The Iron Bull moved his hand, since clearly she wasn’t in the mood for sex, but he stayed where he was, loving the feel of her naked body beneath his, the intimacy of carrying on a conversation in the little nest of covers. It was something he’d never experienced with anyone before. “What brought this on?”

“You called me Morvoren.”

“I always have.” It had come naturally. The music of it, the meaning, had captured his imagination when he first read it, and while her demeanor made the shortened form she usually went by more generally apt, he had always thought he saw something there, deep in those blue eyes of hers, that the longer, more musical name suited better. 

“I know. But … no one else does. It’s … it means something that that’s a name that only you call me.”

“I call you _kadan_ , too.” He smiled, teasing her. “I hope that’s also something only I call you.”

“For now.” She winked at him, teasing him back. “And I call you that, too, but it’s more of an endearment, like ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’.” Ren frowned at him thoughtfully. “Did they call you ‘Hissrad’ in Seheron, as well?”

“Yeah, pretty much from when I first started in the Ben-Hassrath.”

“What about before that? What did your tamassran call you?”

The thought of her made the Iron Bull think of what Cole had said yesterday, doing his weird crap getting into people’s heads. Somehow he had touched Tama’s feelings through the Iron Bull’s, which was creepy as shit … but knowing she was glad he had gotten away … well, it was disturbing, was what it was, but it was also—nice. Knowing she’d had pride in him, knowing he hadn’t lost that pride when he was forced out of the Qun.

“ _Kadan_?” Ren asked him, concerned that he had gone far away. “Should I not have asked?”

“No. No, it’s all right.” He kissed her forehead, and then her temple. “I was just … thinking about her.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Yeah. I guess—I guess maybe I do.”

Ren’s hands framed his face, her thumbs stroking his scarred cheeks. “So what did she call you?”

“Ashkaari. It means ‘thoughtful’; someone who thinks.”

Privately, Ren wondered what it would mean if she asked someone with a less poetic soul, but she didn’t care, not really. It was his poetic soul that made him who he was. “I like that.” She felt awkward asking, but she wanted to. “Can I—would you mind if I call you that? It … seems fitting.”

“Fitting? How?”

“Because you call me by the name that only my mother used, and your tamassran was as close as you have to a mother, so if I call you by the name she used for you …”

He smiled. “Might as well give it a try. ‘The Iron Bull’ not good enough for you?”

Ren studied his face for a moment, trying to figure out how to explain what she was thinking. “You said before that it makes you sound like you’re not even a person, and I get that, and why it’s cool … but … you’re a person to me. And the way you think is part of … of what makes you special to me.”

“You’ve given this some thought.”

“A little.”

The idea that she had been thinking of him that way made him warm all over. She wore his necklace, she spent her nights with him, but this was—beyond that, somehow. He kissed her again, deep and slow.

The kiss broke and Ren looked up at him. “Make love to me, Ashkaari.”

“With pleasure.”

A long time later, after he had indeed made slow, thoughtful, thoroughly satisfying love to her, Ren finally managed to leave her quarters.

Krem was standing by the buffet when she went over to see if there was anything left from breakfast. Not much—the scrapings of the big kettle of oatmeal and some fruit—but the tea was still hot. Krem looked her over. “Someone looks happy this morning. How’s the Chief?”

“Sleeping.” Ren grinned.

“You wore him out? Good for you. Didn’t know anyone could. Glad to see the big idiot’s treating you right.”

“You’re not worried about me treating him right?”

“Yeah, a little,” Krem admitted. He followed her as she found a spot at one of the long tables and sat down next to her. “You know what he’s like as well as I do; he’ll never show it, but if he trusts you—“

“I know.” Ren looked at him seriously. “I really do. I’m not going to—I won’t take advantage of that.”

“Good. Took you long enough to get here.”

She smiled. “He had to think.”

“That sounds like him.”

“What about you, Krem? How are you finding the Inquisition?”

“No complaints. Why, what have you heard?” He looked alarmed, and Ren chuckled.

“Flissa doesn’t kiss and tell, if that’s what you’re worried about. So unless the Chargers have gotten into some trouble I’m not aware of …”

“No, nothing like that.”

“You and Flissa seem to make each other happy.”

“Seems like it,” Krem agreed. “You and the Chief should come have dinner with us in the tavern sometime.”

“Oh, I like that idea. How about tonight?” It did sound like fun … and having a prior engagement would save Ren from having to have dinner with Demelza again.

“I’ll check with her, but it sounds good.”

“Did you leave family behind in Tevinter, Krem?”

“Just my parents. My father’s one of the servus publicus, the Imperial-owned slaves; my mother blames me for that. I don’t hear from them much.”

“How could it possibly be your fault that your parents are slaves?”

Krem smiled humorlessly. “Because if I hadn’t ‘insisted on being unnatural’, as she says, I’d have made a good marriage and been able to support them when my father’s tailoring business went under. But instead I got myself exiled, and they had nowhere to turn, so he sold himself into slavery.”

“Your parents didn’t support your decision? Or—did you not tell them before you left?” Ren didn’t want to pry, but she had to admit to some curiosity. 

“My father knew, I think. He never said anything, but he used to do things like angle his shaving mirror down so I could pretend to shave, too. He went along with my mother trying to get me married off, but … when I couldn’t look at the person in a dress one more day and joined the army—she told me never to come back, but he … he slipped a coin into my hand when I left. He didn’t have much, and I was going to get paid as a soldier, but—it was something he could do.”

“He sounds like a nice man.”

“He is, all things considered.” Krem drained the last of his cup of tea. “Now here I am, and I’m late for a sparring match. Cole—little bastard’s fast. About as far from sparring with the Chief as you can get, really.”

“That’s true.” Ren took the change in subject for the full stop it was. “Tavern tonight?”

“Yeah, let’s plan on that.”  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull slept well, surrounded by the scent of his _kadan_ and with the sounds of Skyhold coming in through the open balcony doors. When at last he opened his eye, the day was well started. He sat up and stretched, supremely satisfied. At the thought of her this morning, using that name that no one had called him since his Tama, bringing back to him a part of himself he had lost, he shivered. He had never imagined anything like this, and he intended to enjoy every minute he had of it.

He was too much of a realist, too well versed in the way the world worked, to think this would last; she was a young woman still, and the head of a powerful organization. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t even aware of how powerful it—or she—was. Some day, she would need something more … respectable than a shack-up with a disgraced Qunari. The Iron Bull accepted that. 

In the meantime—there was work to be done. He had lazed enough of the day away. He needed to check in with Krem and the Chargers, to get in some sparring and probably some weight training, as well. Maybe even a run. He needed to build up his agility if the Inquisitor was going to want to keep fighting dragons.

But first, he was reminded by the rumbling of his stomach, lunch.

Downstairs the keep was humming. Ren was trapped with Josephine and a small group of Nevarran nobles. She cast him a look of comical desperation, and he grinned back at her. This was part of what she needed to be better at, to curb her impatience with the nobility and their rules and habits and restrictions.

He ambled on past her table, filling his plate and finding an empty seat next to Dorian. They had worked together enough to have a mutual respect, if not necessarily a trust. Dorian was a Vint mage, after all, a member of a slippery breed that had been responsible for a lot of atrocities in the Iron Bull’s experience; on the other hand, he was a Qunari, and Dorian had as little reason to trust his people.

They ate and then meandered out into the courtyard together. As they walked, the Iron Bull thought of what Dorian had gone through, choosing to leave behind his homeland and his people, the stormy interview with his father. Maybe he hadn’t judged the mage fairly.

With that thought in mind, he said abruptly, “How are the footsies?”

Dorian looked at him, startled, then relaxed, remembering a conversation they had had about his constant complaints about the cold. “Still freezing, thank you. I long for a truly warm day. Surely you must as well?”

The Iron Bull shrugged. The cold didn’t bother him much. “Sometimes. You wouldn’t go back, though, would you?”

“Some day, perhaps, to see if I could change things. Would you?”

“No.” The truth was more of a grey area than his uncompromising answer would make it seem, but he was hardly going to get into a long philosophic discussion. He suspected the same was true of Dorian, despite the apparent sincerity of the mage’s answer. “Still … that thing with your family. That had to be tough.”

“Qunari don’t have families. What would you know about it?” Dorian snapped.

“Having to walk away from everything you grew up with? Knowing you’ve disappointed the ones who love you?” The Iron Bull could still see Gatt’s expressive face, the dismay and the anger there when he had chosen the Chargers over the Qun. “I might know a bit about what that’s like.” He looked at the mage squarely. “Takes a tough man to do it, too. So good on you, you big old fop.”

“Yes, indeed. Good on me.” Dorian cast him a sideways look. “You seem to have left your sorrows behind when you moved in with the Inquisitor.”

“Not that simple.”

“When is it ever?”

The Iron Bull raised his eyebrow. “You talk like you don’t have your own compensation. How is Ser Morris?”

Dorian flushed. He had been doing a very good job keeping that relationship discreet, but it was hard to keep such a thing totally secret. “Quite well.”

“Complicated when they’re climbing the ladder and you know you’re holding them back, isn’t it?” Ser Morris was widely considered to be the rising star of the Inquisition, managing the heavy task of procurement with tremendous aplomb.

“Is that why she was so upset recently?”

“She? The Inquisitor? Was upset? When?” The Iron Bull spoke before he thought, for once, disturbed that Dorian had seen something he hadn’t.

“When she didn’t take you, a while back. To the Dales.”

“Ah. That was … a misunderstanding. On both sides.” 

“I certainly hope so. That’s a rare girl, and anyone who hurt her—“

“Yeah, would find himself buried under an avalanche where his body would never be found. Right there with you.”

“Just so you know where you stand.”

The Iron Bull nodded. “And you? Where do you stand?”

“Right here, as long as—as long as there’s a need for my particular brand of fabulousness.” With a sharp nod, Dorian moved off in the direction of Ser Morris’s office, leaving the Iron Bull with a sense of disquiet that was not unusual, but not comfortable, either.

“Bull, darling.”

The drawling, Orlesian-accented voice increased his sense of disquiet. He turned to look at Ren’s sister. “Lady Bouchard.”

“So formal.” Demelza pouted at him. “I remember you being much less formal once. I remember …” She ran a finger down his arm. “I remember you being … quite the animal.”

He shrugged.

“And now here you are, tamed by my little sister. Will wonders never cease.”

“Apparently not.”

“I’m just curious, Bull—what exactly is it that you think you’re going to get out of this … ‘relationship’? If it’s just money …” She let the word hang suggestively in the air.

It wasn’t worth protesting that his feelings for Morvoren were real; he didn’t care to share that with this woman in the first place, and she wouldn’t believe him anyway. He remained silent.

“Not money?” Demelza took a step closer to him, her eyes sharp. “I should inform you, in case you are considering harming my beloved little sister, that the Trevelyan family has long arms and even longer memories. You’ll never get away with it.”

If it weren’t for his training, the Iron Bull would have shouted with laughter at the empty threat. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he said, keeping his face impassive.

“You do that. I’ll be watching.” With a final suspicious glance, Demelza left him standing there alone and wishing he could take his _kadan_ away somewhere and hide from the world, just the two of them.


	48. Sleeping with a Qunari

Once Ren had finally escaped Josephine and the Nevarrans, she caught sight of her sister, beckoning imperiously from the door of the main hall. It was too late to turn and run and pretend she hadn’t seen the summons, so she sighed and headed in Demelza’s direction.

Varric looked up as she passed his table. “Hey, Rusty.”

“What’s up?” she asked, glad for the excuse to put off running at her sister’s beck and call.

“You available tomorrow night? You and the big guy, naturally.”

“I think so.” First Krem, now Varric. Ren was pleased that they were being asked to do things together as a couple suddenly. She shouldn’t have been surprised that there had been so many reservations about the relationship once it went public … but she had been, and disappointed. Did it really matter so much that a man had horns and came from a far distant—and different—place?

Varric was watching her, his eyes serious, and she wondered if he could tell what she was thinking. But all he said was, “Good. My quarters, after dinner.”

“We’ll be there.” Reluctantly, she left him to the column of figures he was adding up and made her way to her sister’s side. “Demelza.”

“Dear sister. Come and sit with me for a moment. Dare I ask if you’ve given any thought to what we discussed last night?”

“Some,” Ren said cautiously, although in fact the Iron Bull had driven the whole conversation very satisfactorily from her mind.

“Good. Because of course we—the family—are so proud of you, and wish to see you make the most of this opportunity.”

For whom? Ren wondered. They’d never wanted her to make the most of any previous opportunities. Except the marriages they’d tried to arrange, of course. “Oh?” she said noncommittally.

“Your skepticism does you no favors,” Demelza said sharply. “This is a tremendous responsibility, and we would like to be of assistance in any way we can.”

To make sure she didn’t screw it up, Ren assumed. “That’s kind of you.”

“The least we can do for the baby of the family.”

Ren gritted her teeth. Gawen had been the baby; but of course, if any of them ever spoke his name, they didn’t do so in her presence.

“Now, my dear, about the Iron Bull.”

“Don’t.”

Demelza looked amused. “He is a more interesting choice than that mousy captain of the guard, I must admit, but still … rather common.”

“I thought I was supposed to be courting the common people.”

“Don’t be glib, sister. It doesn’t suit you. You must be aware that you will have to break things off with him.”

“Do I tell you how to conduct your love life?”

There was genuine mirth in Demelza’s laughter, a rarity. “You can be very droll, do you know that?” Her eyes sharpened, steely and direct, as she leaned forward. “Am I to take it that you are not contemplating breaking things off?”

“You can take it that it’s none of your business.”

Demelza frowned. “As stubborn as ever. It is not one of your finer qualities.”

“Was there anything else?”

“No.” Demelza sat straighter in her chair. “I will be leaving in the morning.”

“Ah.” Ren was surprised, but she was hardly going to remark on it. “Is there anything I can do to help you prepare for the journey?”

“No, your people have taken fine care of my horses; they will be more than ready, or so my coachman assures me. I don’t suppose your horsemaster could be convinced to take a job in Orlais?”

“Fereldan to the core,” Ren said. “He’d spit in your eye if you dared to suggest it.” A sight she wouldn’t mind seeing.

“Pity. Have you any message to send to the rest of the family?”

Ren stifled a groan at the thought of the letters that would be flying about between her father and her sisters, talking about her and what she could do for them. “My good wishes for their health and well-being.”

“Naturally.”

“Well, then.” Ren stood up. “It was a pleasure to see you.”

“And you, sister dear.” 

Neither of them were fooling each other; it had been anything but a pleasure. Whatever Demelza had wanted, she hadn’t gotten it, and Ren had a new source of uneasiness, uncertain where her family would pop up next and how they would attempt to make the most of their relationship with the Inquisitor. 

Ren wondered when she would see her sister again. Not until Demelza needed something from the Inquisition, she imagined. “Safe travels,” she wished her sister, and Demelza inclined her head in acknowledgement of the civility.

The rest of the day was filled with Inquisition business, much of it the paperwork that Ren loathed. Scout reports from Leliana, sensitive diplomatic letters from Josephine, army deployments from Cullen, supply lists from Dagna and the kitchens and Horsemaster Dennet and Ser Morris and the facilities staff who looked after the barracks. By sunset, standing on the battlements with Cullen, she was more than ready to take the night off and have some fun.

As if her sigh of relief had summoned him, the Iron Bull appeared from the steps leading up from the courtyard. “There you are, kadan.”

“I’m sorry, were you looking for me?” She smiled up at him, and he came closer, returning the smile, and ruffled her hair affectionately.

“We’re expected in the tavern,” he reminded her.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Cullen said.

“You have plans, too?” Ren asked him, but an enigmatic smile was her only answer. “You’ve been taking lessons from Leliana. In more than one subject, it appears,” she added as he blushed. “Have a good one, then, whatever it is.”

Cullen’s soft chuckle followed her as she walked with the Iron Bull through the rooms at the top of the tavern.

“Is your old room still open?” she asked him.

“Why? You planning on kicking me out?”

“Never.”

“Never’s a long time, _kadan_.”

She glanced at him sharply. “I know it is.” After all this, did he still think there was a time limit? She supposed they had never really talked about the future, but she’d been under the impression that “wherever we go, we’re always together” bore the same weight with him that it did with her. 

Hearing the edge in her voice, he let it go, taking her words for what they were and not for the promise she seemed to intend them to be. “Good.” He didn’t tell her that he had kept up the rent on his room, despite the overcrowding in Skyhold, just in case. Among all the other reasons, it was a holdover from his days in the Ben-Hassrath, to always have an escape route, a bolt-hole to retreat to.

In the main room of the tavern, Krem and Flissa had already staked out a table, and they waved as the Iron Bull and Ren came down the stairs. 

“Hey, Chief. Inquisitor.”

“Krem.”

Flissa and Ren hugged as Ren took the seat next to her friend. “Glad you could make it, Ren.” 

“Thank Krem. It was his idea.”

“He has so many.” Flissa smiled at him from across the table, and Krem reddened.

The formality of the occasion seemed to be oppressing all of them, and an awkward silence descended on the table before the barmaid, an Anders girl named Greta, came by to take their orders. Once they were all sitting over large tankards of ale, and some of that ale had made it inside them, the tension eased a bit. 

“Inquisitor, did you get that letter from King Alistair?” Flissa asked. “I noticed it had fallen on the floor under your chair and didn’t want it to get lost.”

Ren had barely more than nodded before the Iron Bull bellowed, “No shop talk at the table!” 

Ferelden’s king was handsome, single, and a damned hero. Sooner or later Ren was going to be pushed in his direction, and the Iron Bull didn’t need that day to come any sooner than it was already going to.

“Sorry.” Flissa and Krem exchanged glances across the table that were uncomfortably knowing. The Iron Bull hated when he tipped his hand that way, although Ren was oblivious. He didn’t know if he should be concerned about that or not; she ought to know who the eligible bachelors were, even if she wasn’t looking for one.

As they were tackling their meals, Krem said, “Hey, Chief, you remember the time we had the job in Denerim and you and I and Rocky ended up hiding in the palace stables?”

The Iron Bull laughed. “Yeah, the horses weren’t wild about it. Didn’t one piss on Rocky’s foot?”

“Wasn’t his foot.” Krem grinned. “And then you said what was good for a horse was good for a bull, and …”

“He did not!” Ren looked wide-eyed at the Iron Bull.

“To be fair, part of the job had involved drinking at the Pearl for a couple of hours. And I bought Rocky new boots.”

“And a new hat.”

In the ensuing laughter, Ren noticed that another chair had appeared at the table. Cole was suddenly sitting in between herself and Flissa, and she had no idea how he’d gotten there. He looked at all of them quizzically. 

“It’s … funny?”

“Yeah, you had to be there, I guess,” the Iron Bull told him.

“But Flissa and the Inquisitor weren’t there, and they thought it was funny … and Rocky was there and he didn’t. Not really.”

“Didn’t he?” The Iron Bull frowned. “Krem, bonus for Rocky next payday.”

“You got it, Chief.”

Cole was looking at them all. As usual, Ren felt uncomfortably as though her deepest thoughts were on display for him, and his next words proved it.

He looked at the Iron Bull and said earnestly, “She almost says the word sometimes. _Katoh_.”

Ren could feel her cheeks heating up. The Iron Bull was sitting up straighter, looking at Cole intently.

“She tastes it in her mouth, sweet release a breath away, tongue tying it tenderly, like you tie her.”

The Iron Bull’s eye widened in surprise; Krem and Flissa were both grinning widely, amused. Ren decided there were clearly no secrets here—after all, Flissa had no doubt picked up the scarves once or twice, and would certainly have told Krem—so she’d let it go, and see where Cole was taking this. She did think that, sometimes, how easy it would be to say it; it was like the water, catching her and buoying her up after she had leaped into it, keeping her from going under completely.

“But she doesn’t,” Cole went on, “for you and for her, because it makes it mean more. A fuller feeling, a brighter burst—“ 

The Iron Bull cleared his throat. “Um, yeah. And, uh, how’s she feel about you saying this in front of everybody?” He wasn’t meeting Ren’s eyes, and she wondered what he would say later.

She shrugged. “In this crowd? Sounds tame to me.”

Krem laughed. “Good on you, Inquisitor.”

“When are you ever going to call me Ren?”

“Some day?”

Cole looked across the table at Krem and said, “She doesn’t think about it. The name. To her, what there is is all there ever was; she doesn’t need to know what came before. That’s yours, for you to keep.”

Krem and Flissa exchanged a glance across the table, Krem’s questioning and Flissa’s with a smile deep in her eyes, and something in Krem’s posture seemed to relax. Ren tried to let Cole’s words pass over her; she didn’t need to know what they meant to her friends.

“Cole, maybe this is—“ the Iron Bull began, but Cole was already off again.

“You act like you’re in charge, The Iron Bull, but it’s really her. She decides when, and you measure it carefully, enough to enjoy, to energize, but never to anger. She’s tied, teased, tantalized, but it’s tempered to what she wants. She submits, but you serve.”

Ren looked at him across the table. She’d never put it in those words herself, but Cole’s words seemed to fit them perfectly, to explain the safety she felt, the security, the … love. The Iron Bull was flushed, his eye refusing to meet hers. Had he imagined she didn’t know, didn’t feel it in his touch, in the way he was so careful to push her just far enough and then to back off?

“D’you mind, kid?” he asked. “If you take away all the mystery, it’s not as hot.”

Reaching across the table, Ren trailed her fingertips across the back of his hand. “Bull? Yes, it is.”

He looked at her, then, startled, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Right! My mistake. Carry on, kid.”

Cole looked confused. “You want me to keep going? Usually you ask me to stop. You tell me I’m weird.”

“You are weird.”

“What’s an Orlesian tickler?”

Krem and Ren both burst into laughter, Flissa biting her lip to hold hers back. 

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” the Iron Bull growled.

“No, you won’t.”

“No. I won’t.”

Ren signaled Cabot, the bartender, for the check. “On that note …”

“Just what I was thinking,” Flissa said.

“Got an Orlesian tickler upstairs, I take it?” Ren grinned at her friend. “Or some such thing.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

Cole was watching Cabot making out the bill. He looked at the Iron Bull. “Barman laughs, slides the drink over, tankard in view the whole time. No chance poison was added. Blade at the waist, club under the bar. Moves with training, mercenary or guard. Use that if I have to.”

The Iron Bull nodded. “Yeah, I go for the shoulder, a shot he trained to take on the armor. But, since he’s a barman now and not a merc, he bleeds, flinches, and I trap the arm and break his neck.”

“Why, The Iron Bull?” Cole asked.

“I didn’t do it, kid. It was just idle thought.” The Iron Bull snatched the bill out of Cabot’s hands and scribbled his name on it. “Put it on my tab.”

“Chief!” Krem protested.

Ren raised her eyebrows. As the Inquisitor, she’d planned on taking on this one; the least she could do for her people, really.

“Next time, Krem de la Crème.” The Iron Bull clapped his friend on the back.

“But … The Iron Bull …” Cole couldn’t let it go. “Do you think about how to kill everyone you meet?”

“Yeah.” The Iron Bull glanced at Cole in surprise. “Do you not?”

Cole shook his head sorrowfully. “Your head hurts.”

“It does now.”

When Ren looked again, Cole was gone. She sighed, looking at the Iron Bull. “You really want to keep him?”

“He’s harmless. Yeah, he says more than people need to hear, but …” He didn’t say that Cole’s inappropriate remarks had told him a number of things he really wanted to know, chiefly about Ren herself. He could still hear Cole in his head: “she submits, but you serve”. He wouldn’t have put it that way, but … yeah. He was hers, and happy to be as long as she needed him. Suddenly he wanted her alone with an urgency that had his chair sliding halfway across the room when he got up from it. “Krem, Flissa, nice night.”

“Yeah, Chief. Let’s do it again sometime.” Krem’s eyes were on Flissa with an intensity that made the Iron Bull happy for his second-in-command. “Inquisitor.”

“Krem.” Ren could read both men easily, and she and Flissa exchanged grins. “See you in the morning.”

“Count on it, Inquisitor.”

Ren joined the Iron Bull on the way out the door. She and Flissa would have fun rehashing this evening tomorrow, no question about it. She had grown to love their girlish morning chats, something she had never experienced before.

“You’re not walking fast enough, kadan.”

“You in a hurry?”

“You bet your gorgeous ass.”

She laughed. “In that case, I’ll let you keep Cole. He’s easier to look after than a mabari, that’s for sure.”

In their quarters, Ren sat down to start taking off her boots. The Iron Bull was naked in bed before she had the first one unlaced. “I fucking hate those boots.”

“I know you do.”

“You wear them just to piss me off, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Once the boots were on the floor, the rest of her clothes came off much faster, and she dove under the covers, snuggling up to his warmth.

The Iron Bull sighed with pleasure. He rolled over so she was beneath him, the world narrowing to the little nest under the covers where they lay together. Dangerous to be so intoxicated just lying here with her, not even needing to have sex with her to be content. He knew the dangers, but he couldn’t seem to find it in himself to care, not enough to stop, anyway. To silence the little voice inside him that kept telling him how un-Ben-Hassrath this relationship was, he kissed her, soft kisses on lips and forehead and eyelids.

“Hm.” Ren smiled, thinking of the evening. Something Cole had said came back to her, and she looked at the Iron Bull thoughtfully. “Ashkaari, do you really think about how you would kill everyone you meet?”

“Yeah. Habit, really, like checking for the fastest way out of every room and always sitting with my back to the wall.”

“Huh.” She had never noticed that he did that.

“You really should start thinking more like an assassin. Sooner or later—probably sooner—someone’s going to send one after you.”

“Great. Just what I wanted to think about right now.”

“Fine, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” But he didn’t want to go down that route right now, either, much as he thought she needed the wake-up call.

“So … is that how you would take out Cabot, with the wound to the shoulder?”

“Nah. Cabot’s easy; he’s not a fighter. Grab a bottle, break it over his head, stab him with the broken end.”

“What about Krem?”

The Iron Bull shook his head. “You can’t ask me that one.”

She liked that about him, that he wouldn’t betray Krem’s weaknesses, even to her. “All right, then, Varric.”

“Bianca’s the key to Varric. Use her weight against him to pull him off balance and either strangle him with the strap or snap his neck.”

“Vivienne?” Something in Ren really wanted to hear him thinking about killing the mage. Not that she had anything against Vivienne, but … he really bowed and scraped a bit too much to Madame de Fer for Ren’s liking.

His pop of the eyebrow said he knew what she was thinking. “Poison. Preferably something you could brush on her skin as you passed, but if not, then on a very small, thin dagger across the meaty part of the arm, or the buttocks, where she wouldn’t necessarily feel it in time.”

“What about me?”

He chuckled, giving her an absolutely wicked grin. His hands caught her wrists, stretching her arms above her head, letting the vulnerability of her position speak for him.

Ren wriggled luxuriantly beneath him. Josephine, she knew, entertained exactly these reservations about her sleeping with a Qunari spy. But even if he was in deep cover, still working with the Ben-Hassrath, which Ren didn’t believe he was, she didn’t think he would ever harm her like this. In the courtyard, on expedition, at the dinner table, maybe. In bed, never. That was love, she thought, trusting the other person so absolutely.

The Iron Bull bent to kiss her, a slow, lingering kiss. “And you, ataashi? How would you take me out, if you had to?”

She returned his grin with one fully as evil. “That’s easy. I stash a dagger under the pillow and take care of you while you’re … distracted.”

He laughed at that one, a deep, rich laugh that made her laugh, too. “Only one problem with your theory.”

“What’s that?” She shifted beneath the covers, feeling him hard already, pushing against him.

He groaned, returning the pressure and adding friction that had her moaning, her hips twisting. The Iron Bull watched her, his eye heavy-lidded with growing passion. “By the time I’m that distracted, _kadan_ ,” he murmured in her ear, letting his tongue trace the edge, “you can’t remember your own name, much less where you hid the dagger.”

His hands had found her breasts under the covers, his thumbs stroking the nipples to hardness. Ren threw her head back, her eyes closing as she arched her back into his touch. 

The Iron Bull chuckled. “See what I mean?”

That had her eyes snapping open. “Oh, yeah?” Her hands were free now, and she used them to shove him off her and onto his back, straddling his legs, grinding herself against him before slipping lower to take him in her mouth. His hands were in her hair, setting her pace, and she let him build until she could tell by the tenor of his breathing and the inarticulate groans that came from him that he was close. Then she took her mouth off him, reaching up to whisper in his ear, “Now who can’t remember their name?”

With a roar, he had her immobilized in his arms, kissing her hard as he found her center with his fingers, working her until she was begging to have him inside her. 

They were each at such a pitch that only a few thrusts had Ren clenching around him, her nails digging into his shoulders as she held on to him. As soon as he felt her relax, he found his release almost as quickly. 

Lying there in the glow from the dying fire, he kissed the tip of her nose. 

Ren smiled at him. “Morvoren,” she said.

The Iron Bull frowned at her, then that sweet smile she saw so rarely and prized so much spread across his face as he realized what she had said. “Ashkaari.”


	49. Those Words

Ren was late to Varric’s shindig the next night, having gotten caught up in a backlog of requisitions with Ser Morris. It had been on the tip of her tongue to invite him along, knowing that he and Dorian were an item, but she imagined if Varric hadn’t invited Morris, he had a reason. And Morris, while growing in confidence between his tremendous success in his work and his relationship with Dorian, was still a bit more overawed by Ren and her companions than was conducive to an entertaining evening.

So she left him with a cheery good-night and hurried to the keep and up the stairs to Varric’s. 

He met her at the door. “Ah, there you are, Rusty. Thought we were going to have to send a search party.”

“I thought I was never going to find your rooms. Until tonight, I didn’t even know where they were. Honestly, Varric, I think there are people who believe you live in the main hall.”

He chuckled. “It was the same in Kirkwall; I had a nice suite in the Hanged Man, but it was so much easier to work where there were people, and noise. I’m not big on silence.”

She followed him into his chambers, where … everyone, it seemed, was sitting around a large table.

“Hey, _kadan_.” The Iron Bull patted the seat next to him. “We almost had to start without you.”

“We couldn’t have that, could we?” She kissed him, lingering just a little, before taking her seat and nodding to the others. 

Varric took a seat between Dorian and Josephine. The Antivan’s eyes were shining as she shuffled the cards, dropping a few. “Deal her in, Ruffles,” Varric said.

Josephine looked down at the cards in her hands. “I do hope I recall the rules. It’s been ages since I played a game of Wicked Grace.” She dealt the cards gracelessly, flipping a few over, misdealing once or twice.

The Iron Bull bit down on a smile. In his opinion, she was overdoing it, but then, he recognized the glitter in her eyes. He’d seen it in a lot of natural gamblers. He’d have to be on his toes if he wasn’t going to be losing a lot of coin to her tonight.

Of course, it would be hard to be on his toes with the warmth and scent of his kadan next to him. She had taken off the leather vest she wore and unbuttoned the top few buttons of her shirt, and somehow, that was hotter than if she were naked. Because he knew what was under that shirt, had had his hands and mouth all over those gorgeous tits, but he couldn’t quite see them, and that made him want to.

On his other side, Cole was frowning at the cards in his hand. “There’s a crown on his head, but a sword, too. His head didn’t want either.”

Varric chuckled, shaking his head indulgently. “Don’t talk to the face cards, Kid.”

“The point is not to tell anyone what you have,” the Iron Bull said. 

Cole looked confused. “But then how do I help you all win?”

“Yeah. I’ll let you work that one out yourself.”

Between Ren and Dorian, Cullen and Blackwall were vying for which one could look most uncomfortable. Cullen won, rising halfway out of his seat. “You have more than enough players.”

“No, we don’t.” Ren grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

“I have a thousand things to do,” he told her.

“When don’t you? Stay and play cards a while. What possible harm can it do?”

“Losing money can be both relaxing and habit forming,” Dorian observed, shifting his cards around in his hand. “Give it a try.”

Josephine had ignored the chatter, looking for all Thedas like someone who couldn’t quite remember how the game was played. “Dealer starts,” she mumbled. “What do you think, three coppers? Do you think that’s too daring? Maybe I’ll make it one. No! Boldness! Three it is.”

The Iron Bull gave her a disgusted look. Now she was overdoing it. “Three coppers? Silver, or go home!”

She gave him a sidelong look that was pure Antivan card sharp. “Silver, then. By all means.”

Ren left her cards on the table, not even bothering to look. These rare card nights were fun by themselves, even though she had no hope of winning. She was outclassed by the Iron Bull, by Dorian, by Blackwall, and probably by Cullen and Josephine, despite their shows of reluctance and inexperience. The bet came around to her, and she folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, smiling. “I’m in, and I raise another silver.”

“You haven’t even looked at your cards,” Cullen hissed at her.

She shrugged.

“Our illustrious leader is betting that we’re bluffing,” Varric said, winking at her across the table.

“You are bluffing,” Blackwall pointed out.

“They aren’t all bluffing,” Cole said earnestly.

Ren laughed. “Don’t tell me; that’s part of the game.”

The Iron Bull looked at her sideways. “No, it’s not.”

“Maybe not for you, Ben-Hassrath, but it is for me.”

He frowned at her, and then at his cards.

The first round went to Josephine, who upped her initial bet significantly for the second round, giving up all pretense of not knowing what she was doing, and they all settled in for some serious card-playing. Blackwall’s jacket and Cullen’s breastplate came off as the room heated, and Josephine even untied the silken bow at her throat.

Under cover of the table, Ren dropped her left hand to the Iron Bull’s thigh, feeling the heat of his skin and the firmness of his muscles under her fingers.

It was a challenge, the Iron Bull reminded himself. Just one more session on how to keep control of himself; he’d been in so many when he’d been training for the Ben-Hassrath. Then again, none of the tamassrans they had called in as distractions had known what he liked the way Ren did. Her blunt fingernails scraping along his inner thigh were testament to that. 

Her pinkie slid across his cock and he clenched his teeth to hold back his response. Reaching down, he grabbed her wandering little hand, lacing his fingers with hers, and held it still midway down his thigh.

Ren’s blue eyes twinkled, but she didn’t look at him. Cullen was in the middle of some long story whose beginning the Iron Bull had completely missed, and picking up the thread—something about a Templar recruit in his knickers in front of the dining hall—was far less interesting than stroking Morvoren’s fingers with his own, tracing patterns on the ball of her thumb and across her sensitive palm.

Everyone else was hanging on the story, and the Iron Bull was almost sorry he’d missed it. He liked Cullen, and was in favor of bringing the Commander out of his shell a bit. But he was even more in favor of the high color that was brightening Ren’s cheeks and the way her chest looked when she was starting to breathe heavily, as she was right now.

Cullen came to the end of the story, and the Iron Bull added a “You’re shitting us!” to the general laughter as a show of support. 

Varric chuckled. “I could never put that in a book. No one would ever believe it.”

Ren snatched her hand back, and the Iron Bull hastily turned his triumphant chuckle into a cough. “I think we need another round of drinks,” she said, getting hastily to her feet.

“I’ll help you,” Cullen said. “Don’t start without us!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Curly.” Varric deftly shuffled the cards.

Play resumed when Cullen and Ren came back. She had switched to water, thinking that sitting next to the Iron Bull was quite potent enough. 

Josephine was proving all but unbeatable. The Iron Bull and Varric and Blackwall had each won a couple of hands, but the lion’s share of the pots were going straight to the Ambassador. She feigned shock as she raked in another stack of coins. “And the dealer takes everything! I win again.”

“No shit,” the Iron Bull grumbled. He’d lost interest in the game a few hands back, as he and Ren continued to see who could work the other one up the most before someone else at the table noticed. Of course, it was quite possible several people had noticed—most of their friends were the observant type—but the Iron Bull really didn’t care at this point.

Cullen leaned across the table, a challenge in his eyes as he looked at Josephine. “Deal again, Lady Ambassador. I think I’ve figured out your tells.” 

Varric nearly choked on his ale, staring at Cullen with wide, incredulous eyes.

“Commander!” Josephine batted her eyes at him. “Everyone knows a lady has no tells.”

Even Blackwall had a hard time keeping a straight face at that one, and he’d hardly cracked a smile all night.

Ren shook her head, amused. “I’m not losing any more coin to Josephine, but this I have to see.”

After a glance out the window at the rising moon, Dorian stood up. “If you’ll all excuse me, I’m sure you can tell me all about it in the morning.”

“Somewhere to be?” the Iron Bull asked, grinning.

Dorian winked. “That is for me to know.”

“Tell Morris we said hello,” Varric called after him.

Cullen was outclassed by Josephine from the start of their head-to-head match. He lost all his money, and then went completely crazy and started betting his clothes, eventually ending up in nothing but his smalls and scuttling away, his cheeks flaming red. 

Josephine collected his clothes, laughing merrily. “I shall deliver these to Leliana. I imagine she will know what to do with them. Thank you all for a most entertaining evening.”

Blackwall bowed to her and to Ren before taking his leave as quietly as he had come. Cole drifted away, muttering to himself; the Iron Bull thought the evening had been quite an education for the kid.

Ren, much to the Iron Bull’s disgust, offered to help Varric clean up.

He laughed. “And watch Tiny explode with frustration? Nice offer, but I’ll pass.”

“Good. Thanks for the game, Varric.” The Iron Bull grabbed Ren’s hand and dragged her out of the room.

In the hallway, he gathered her into his arms, kissing her hard.

“I’m never gonna make it your quarters,” he whispered in her ear, his hand cupping and squeezing the curve of her delectable ass.

Ren chuckled, pulling away. “Our quarters,” she reminded him, tugging him by the hand down the hall and to the stairs. 

They managed to reach the main keep before he caught her and pressed her against the wall, his hands fumbling at the buttons of her shirt. With a growl of frustration, he ripped it open, buttons flying, and buried his face between her firm, soft breasts.

“Ashkaari,” Ren gasped. “Not here.”

He wanted her wherever he could have her, but of course, even as late as it was, anyone could walk in. Hoisting her over his shoulder, he made his way to the door to her quarters, kicking it closed behind them with a slam that echoed through the main hall. 

The Iron Bull briefly considered letting her down, having her on the stairs. Her hair was brushing softly against his lower back, her fingers stealing their way under his waistband, and something about having her in this position was adding a savage bite to the hunger he felt for her. He wanted her now in the safety of her—their—room, to take her with a force that would shake the very stones of Skyhold.

He took the stairs two at a time, hampered only slightly by those tiny little fingers exploring his backside as he went, and he threw her down on the bed. Lying there, disheveled from being carried up the stairs, her shirt torn open, her eyes hazy with desire, she was the most gorgeous sight he had ever seen, and he lunged for her, his arms wrapping around her as his mouth found hers.

Ren pressed her hips up against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest, wanting to get closer to his heat. She shoved at his pants, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings of hers, both fevered in their need to get each other naked without breaking the contact of their mouths.

When they finally managed, Ren’s fingers wrapped around his cock, the Iron Bull’s sank deep inside her, and they moaned into one another’s mouth. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly. Ren drew her legs up to give him better access. Positioning himself against her, he thrust inside her, hard.

She was so tight around him, so hot and smooth. “Ah, _kadan_ , how you feel …”

“Deeper, Ashkaari,” she moaned. “Harder. Please.”

He obliged, her words driving him to a frenzy. He thrust hard, trying to maintain a steady pace so as not to overwhelm her, but she was crying out in pleasure, her fingernails digging into his skin, her teeth grazing his chest, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. He buried himself inside her over and over, the bed shaking underneath them. Ren’s hips were thrusting back at him, their bodies slamming together, sweat darkening her hair and dampening his face.

At last she threw back her head , crying out his name, shuddering beneath him, and the way she clenched around him was too much. He held her tightly, pressing in deeper than he had ever been before, and gave himself up to his own pleasure.

They lay together for long moments, their breathing harsh and heavy in each other’s ears. “Damn,” the Iron Bull groaned, “that was … That was good, _kadan_.”

She grinned. “I’m just glad I could keep up.”

“You always do.” 

Ren leaned her head back against the pillows, sighing. “I needed that.”

“My pleasure.” He chuckled low in his throat. “Well, maybe some of it was yours.” Tilting his head to the side, he looked at her quizzically. “All this time, and you’ve never said _katoh_.”

“Surprised?”

“Well … yeah. If I’d known you’d last this long, I’d have let you pick your own watchword.”

“People do that?”

“Normally, yes. I picked for you because … I didn’t figure you’d be this into it.”

“So much for your Ben-Hassrath training.”

“You’re the hardest person to read I’ve ever met, _kadan_.” Too many of his emotions were tangled up in her, always had been, for him to be able to look at her with anything like the detachment required.

“I find that hard to believe.”

The Iron Bull shook his head. “You shouldn’t. I want more from you than I’ve ever wanted from anyone before, care more about your feelings and your reactions. It clouds my ability to study you and predict your thoughts and actions, especially where I’m concerned.”

Ren treasured the admission, especially made so freely. He wasn’t open about his feelings, not in words, although he showed them to her with every touch, every look. She ran her hand affectionately down the length of his left horn. “So what do people usually choose for a watchword? Could I change mine now if I wanted to?”

“Anything works, as long as it’s not something you’d ever shout by accident.” He frowned at her. “Do you want to change?”

She thought about it for a moment. _Katoh_ was from his language, his people, and since she had no intention of using it unless she absolutely had to, she saw no reason to have anything different.“No.”

“Good.”

“Give me an example of what someone else might choose, then.”

“Hm. Josephine might pick ‘madrigal’; Cullen would go with ‘phylactery’. Cassandra would probably choose something soft, like ‘silk’ or ‘satin’.”

“Really? You think so?”

“Ben-Hassrath, remember?”

Ren said it with him, and laughed at his disgruntled expression. 

“You’re asking for it, _kadan_.”

“Of course I am. That was just the warm-up before, right?”

He growled in her ear. “Maybe I’ll make you use that watchword this time.”

“You’ll have to try a lot harder than that,” she said, arching her neck as he bit her soft flesh.

“Good to know.” 

She wriggled a little underneath him. “So you think you’ve got everyone pegged, do you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What would Varric use, then? Wait, don’t tell me … Bianca.”

The Iron Bull laughed. “No, it would have to be something he wouldn’t shout during sex. Maybe ‘paragon’. Or ‘thaig’.”

“Sera?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be ‘shite’, or you’d never even get started.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “Honestly, though, Sera’s not the kind of person who would let someone tie her down.”

Ren hesitated before saying, “Vivienne?” She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know that he’d thought about what the mage might or might not shout during sex.

“Tough one,” he said, for all the world as though he’d never considered it before. “I’m going with ‘periwinkle’. She seems like a ‘periwinkle’ kind of lady.”

What exactly a periwinkle kind of lady might be, Ren certainly wasn’t one. But then, he wasn’t with Vivienne. He was with her. “How about Blackwall?”

His eye narrowed. “’Petit-alms’,” he said at last. “Get deep enough under that armor, there’s a man who lived the good life once.”

“You think he misses it?”

“No, but I don’t think he can forget it, either.”

“Hardest one for last: Cole.”

The Iron Bull laughed. “He stumped me so much I actually asked him. He thought really hard about it, then finally said his watchword was ‘stop’. I don’t think he got it. Probably for the best, honestly.”

“You think he’ll ever get it?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. Then he nuzzled the side of her neck. “But I don’t really want to talk about Cole right now.” He kissed her, long and slow, and then pulled back, looking deeply into her eyes. “I’m a better man for having met you, Morvoren.”

“Ashkaari,” she protested softly.

“No, I am. I just … I hope this made things a little easier on your end.”

Ren shook her head. “Not ‘this’ … although it’s certainly been a stress-reliever. You made things easier on my end.” She looked at him, hesitating for a moment before she said, “I love you.” She didn’t know why she was hesitant; it was what she meant when she called him kadan, but using those words, those southern words that were so foreign to his culture, seemed like a leap over the precipice.

The Iron Bull was well aware of what a step the admission was for her. He wondered when the last time was that she had said those three words to someone; probably not since her brother, and maybe not even then. So he lightened the moment a bit, for her and for him. “You going soft on me, kadan?”

“Just … I just wanted you to know what you mean to me.”

That sharp dragon’s face softened as he looked at her, and gently he laid his hand along the side of her face. “I love you, too.”

Lying here with him, as perfectly happy as she could ever remember being, Ren couldn’t help thinking about the Arbor Wilds. In just a couple short days, they would be going after Corypheus and his army. She tried not to think about it too much, but she was far from sure she could prevail against Corypheus. “Ashkaari.”

“What is it, _kadan_?”

“No matter what happens, if we don’t … if we don’t make it through this—“

The Iron Bull felt those words all through him, the very thought of losing her that way jarring him to the bones. “You win,” he said hoarsely. “ _Katoh_. Stop. I can’t …” Beneath the covers, his arms slid around her, cradling her close against him. He pressed his forehead against hers, closing his eye as he struggled to push away the fear that gripped him. “All we have to do is kill Corypheus. That’s easy; we’re good at killing shit.” 

“If you say so.” Ren shivered, despite the heat of his body.

“Hey. Just one more big fight to put this magister asshole down for good.” The Iron Bull stroked the side of her face, meeting her eyes. “I knew you’d get us here, kadan. I’m very proud of you.”

She smiled at him, heartened by his faith in her, and his pride. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you, Ashkaari.” Putting her arms around his neck, she clung to him.

The Iron Bull held her tightly, wanting to memorize the way every curve of her body felt against him. In her ear, he said, “We’re coming out of this alive, Morvoren. Together.”

“Do you promise?” Her voice sounded very small.

He shouldn’t; he didn’t know the future any better than she did. But she needed his confidence, she needed to hear it … and he needed to say it so he’d believe it, too. “Yeah. I promise.”


	50. The Arbor Wilds

At last it was time to go. After all the worry and preparation, they were off to meet Corypheus in the Arbor Wilds. Ren’s advisors had been unable to agree on a course of action that would get scouts, army, and allies all in place at once, and Ren had felt for once like a true Inquisitor as she’d cut through the arguments and managed all their worries. The end result was that she was marching with Cullen’s armies; their allies were converging on a central meeting ground just outside the Wilds, and Leliana’s scouts were already in place, keeping a sharp eye on the Red Templars there.

Ren had also sent a note to Hawke, remembering his request to be included when it was time to take Corypheus out. She respected that; he had tried his best to kill the darkspawn once, he deserved to be there for the second shot. There had as yet been no response, but she was hoping he might show. She hadn’t told Varric anything about it, not wanting to get the dwarf’s hopes up.

Morrigan was there with them, her focus largely on the eluvian, as was Solas, keeping a firm distance from Morrigan, who appeared to discomfit him for some reason. It wasn’t her skimpy clothes, which Ren could imagine would discomfit most men for various reasons; Solas appeared not to be moved by such motivations. Cole was along as well, pestering the Iron Bull as he did so often. The spirit also kept his distance from Morrigan—whatever her pain might be, it was clear that for once Cole wasn’t interested in trying to fix it.

At the base camp outside the Wilds, one of the scouts came hurrying up to them. “Inquisitor! I’m to tell you that the forward scouts have sighted Corypheus. He was moving toward an elven ruin to the north. No sign of the dragon.”

“Damn,” the Iron Bull said, just as Ren said, “That’s good news.”

She glanced at him, laughing. “One giant creature at a time, please.”

“If you say so, boss.”

Ren turned to the scout, trying to place the name. “Cornelius, is that right?”

He looked pleased that she recognized him. “Yes, Inquisitor.”

“Keep me posted, will you?”

“Of course, Inquisitor! Andraste guide you.”

As Cornelius hurried off, Morrigan said, “If the scout’s report is accurate, I believe Corypheus’s destination may be the Temple of Mythal.”

Ren glanced around, looking for Solas, wanting his opinion, but he was standing away from them, looking out over the Wilds with a sadness she had never seen in him.

“And the Temple is what?” Ren asked, impatient with Morrigan’s hints and half-truths.

“A place of worship out of elven legend. If that is within these Wilds, and it is Corypheus’s destination, then the eluvian he seeks must be inside.”

“All right,” Ren said, “time to do this. Let’s show our soldiers what they’re fighting for; let’s take this Corypheus asshole out once and for all.”

“That’s the spirit, boss.” The Iron Bull shook his sword above his head and yelled and cheered along with the rest. The more energy they started with, the longer it would take to dissipate, and Solas was already low, too caught up in mooning around looking at things to be in the fighting spirit. He understood why she had brought the elven mage, but he worried that Solas’s priorities might not be what Ren was hoping they were.

The Inquisition soldiers and their allies had done a damn good job on the Red Templars, who were standing and fighting and losing at pretty much every turn. Some weird elves were scattered through the forest, fighting Red Templars and Inquisition forces alike. The Iron Bull noticed that they didn’t attack Solas, and he wondered if they would have attacked Sera. Was it an elf thing, or a Solas thing?

Sooner than Ren would have thought, they were entering the Temple of Mythal … but they were just a little too late. Corypheus had gotten there first. The halls were filled with dead Templars and dead elves. In front of a bridge to the main temple, a cadre of elves stood, arrows nocked, in front of Corypheus and Samson and a few assembled Templars, as well as a couple of the last remaining Grey Wardens in Corypheus’s thrall.

“These are but remnants,” Corypheus said, advancing on the elves. “They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows.”

“’Well of Sorrows’?” echoed Ren softly. She looked at Morrigan, who shook her head, clearly bewildered, and then at Solas, but he was paying no attention, crouching in front of the body of an elf, his hand gently on the elf’s face.

As Corypheus approached the bridge, something crackled its way up the pillars on either side. 

“Be honored,” he intoned. “Witness death at the hands of a new god.”

But as he stepped between them, energy from the pillars trapped him, and he cried out in agony. The elves stood their ground, even as he lifted one off his feet—and then pillars, Corypheus, elf, and all exploded.

The relief Ren felt was so intense as to be nearly nauseating. Corypheus was dead. She didn’t have to kill him; she didn’t have to die facing him. It was done. She would use whatever money was in the Inquisition’s coffers to restore these elves’ temple in gratitude.

They moved down amongst the scattered bodies. Samson was nowhere to be seen, Ren noticed, a chill working its way through her. He had hurried across the bridge, the surviving Red Templars with him. Why was he still going on? If Corypheus was dead, what could Samson possibly have left to gain?

And then the body of a dead Grey Warden stirred, rising to its knees and groaning. As they watched, horrified, the body altered, shadows writhing around it.

“It cannot be!” Morrigan cried. 

But it was. Corypheus was resurrecting himself from the body of the Grey Warden as they watched. “Across the bridge. Now!” Ren called, hurrying her people ahead of her.

Corypheus screamed, and an answering scream came from his dragon, which came swooping out of nowhere. Ren and her people made it across the bridge and inside the main temple just in time, the doors closing on the flaming red blast of the dragon’s breath.

No sooner were the doors closed than Ren fell to her knees, retching, all the residual nausea of her intense relief adding itself to the new nausea of her intense disappointment. Corypheus could resurrect himself. Corypheus couldn’t be killed. She would die trying to kill him, because he couldn’t be killed.

Then the Iron Bull was there next to her, holding her hair back fom her face. “We’ll find a way, _kadan_. I don’t believe in things that can’t be killed.”

“Well, I’ll just go tell Corypheus that, shall I? The Iron Bull doesn’t believe in you, so why don’t you lie back down and be dead again?”

“If I thought that would work, I’d tell him so myself.”

Ren got to her feet, accepting the handkerchief Cole gave her to wipe her face and the waterskin Solas handed her to rinse her mouth out.

The Iron Bull turned to Morrigan. “If Corypheus is here for a mirror, why’d he say he was looking for a Well of Sorrows?”

Morrigan put a hand to her head. “I … am uncertain of what he referred to.”

He didn’t think she was telling the truth, but then, Morrigan’s entire existence was built on a web of half-truths and omissions. He wasn’t sure she knew the whole truth to begin with, or could recognize it and speak it plainly. Too many years training herself always to hold back. He could sympathize.

“It matters not,” Morrigan said defensively. “Whatever the Well of Sorrows might be, Corypheus seeks it and therefore you must keep it from his grasp.”

“Why?” Ren said bitterly. “So I can kill him and see him rise over and over again until he kills me for good?”

Cole looked at her sympathetically. “You climbed the rocks. You fell from higher and higher each time, and it hurt more the closer you got, but you climbed until you got to the top.”

Ren remembered that; when she was a girl she had set herself to learn to climb up and down the cliff from her favorite secluded cove. It had taken her months, and she had raged against that immovable wall of rock, but eventually she had built up the strength and skill to do it. She nodded at Cole, feeling stronger for the memory.

Then she turned to Morrigan. “So does he have a finite number of lives, or will he just keep resurrecting himself?”

The mage shook her head. “When he falls, Corypheus’s life force passes on to any Blighted creature.”

“Then Corypheus cannot die,” Solas said softly.

“Once we finish up here, we’ll find a way to stop him,” the Iron Bull said. They had to; and if they couldn’t, he was taking his kadan as far away as he could. He wouldn’t see her life thrown away on some unkillable asshole.

“Perhaps,” Morrigan said thoughtfully, “if we determine how Corypheus gained this power, that will be the answer to taking it away.”

They found an inscription pertaining to this Well of Sorrows, but neither Solas nor Morrigan was particularly forthcoming with information. Ren was wearying rapidly of their silent duel of elven lore; that there was little affection lost between them was evident, but a bit more cooperation with her, on both sides, would have been appreciated.

As it was, they were chasing Samson through a ruined temple, with Corypheus lurking outside, or coming up behind them, or lying in wait ahead of them, and she didn’t know what he was looking for, or why, or how to keep it from him. 

They caught up to Samson at last. The ex-Templar turned, his eyes meeting Ren’s across the space between them. He almost seemed to smile at her. He lifted his arm and sent his men after her before turning to leap into an opening into the inner portion of the temple.

The men weren’t difficult. Morrigan’s magic was extremely efficient, especially when added to the rest of their efforts. 

“Come on,” Ren called when the last Templar fell. “We have to catch them.”

“Wait!” Morrigan caught her by the arm. “We should walk the petitioner’s path, appease whatever spirits or magic may still protect this temple.”

“Spirits or magic? Morrigan, if we don’t catch Samson—“

“People are dying outside while we stand here,” Cole said. “If we use the tunnel, more of our soldiers can flee.”

Solas shook his head. “I must agree with the witch. This is ancient ground, deserving of our respect.”

The Iron Bull kept his mouth shut; he would trust Ren to make the right call, although he was unimpressed by both Morrigan and Solas today.

Ren looked at the tunnel, and then at Solas. “I’m sorry, Solas. If we were in a temple of the Chantry, I would do the same; I don’t disrespect your people’s gods any more than I do my own, if it’s any consolation. Are you with me?”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Yes.”

“Good.” She didn’t bother to ask Morrigan; the witch would follow wherever Ren led because it would get her to the greater power faster.

The Iron Bull gently nudged Ren aside. “I’ll go first.” And he leaped into the tunnel.

It led into a labyrinth of interconnected rooms; if it weren’t for the Red Templars who lay in wait for them, they wouldn’t have known which way Samson had gone. Just another case of someone not thinking ahead, the Iron Bull thought. 

At last they came into a large room; their footsteps echoed on the tiled floors. About halfway through the room, a cadre of elven archers appeared behind them, and a single hooded elf ahead of them.

“You are unlike the other invaders,” the elf said. He looked past them to Solas. “You stumble down our paths at the side of one of our own; you bear the mark of magic which is … familiar to us.”

She looked at the Anchor, remembering what Solas had said about the orb that started it all. “This is elven?”

He ignored her. “What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?”

“They are my enemies. And yours.”

“I am called Abelas,” he said, after studying her face at length. “We are sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on our sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place.” 

“I told you we should have done the rituals,” Morrigan hissed. Ren impatiently waved her to silence.

Abelas continued, “I know what you seek. Like all who have come before, you wish to drink from the vir’abelasan. It is not for you. It is not for any of you.”

Ren sighed, ignoring Morrigan’s continued whispering. “That’s fine with me,” she said sharply. “I don’t care about your Well, I don’t want your Well. All I want is Corypheus; help me kill him, and I’ll go and leave you in peace. And so will everyone with me,” she added, over Morrigan’s protests. 

“I do not think that I believe you,” Abelas said.

“Solas, can you talk to him?”

“What can I say, Inquisitor? Shall I sway him from millennia of service by virtue of our shared blood?”

“Can’t you convince him that I mean what I say, and that I’m supremely uninterested in this Well?”

“What makes you think he would believe me any more than he does you? If anything, I am more suspect than you are, and no doubt he can feel the desire for the Well rolling off our companion here.”

Morrigan muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath.

Solas continued, “This is his purpose; to stay here, to awaken on the approach of intruders; to assume that intruders are after the Well and to keep them from it. I cannot make him be other than he is, no matter how persuasive you may think I can be.”

“Your companion speaks the truth.” Abelas nodded with decision. “Our duty is clear; the vir’abelasan shall not be usurped … even if I must destroy it.”

He disappeared through the doors behind him. Next to Ren, Morrigan shouted “No!” Suddenly where she had been standing a raven took wing and followed Abelas, Morrigan’s name ringing in the air as Ren ran after her. But they couldn’t follow her immediately because the elven archers attacked as soon as Abelas was gone.

Fighting the archers slowed them more than Ren would have liked, and as soon as they were down she sprinted in the direction Morrigan and Abelas had gone. At the bottom of the steps that appeared to lead to the Well, she caught up to Samson, which was at least some relief.

“Inquisitor,” Samson said, turning to her. “You’ve got a damned long reach.”

“You’ve got nothing left, Samson. No demons, no lyrium, no reserves. Stand down.”

He laughed at that. “Corypheus chose me twice; first as his general, now as the Vessel for the Well of Sorrows. A lot more than anyone else ever did for me. You think I’m going to let him down?”

“I don’t think you’re going to have any choice.” Ren lifted the rune Dagna had made and activated it.

Samson cried out in agony, falling to the ground as the rune did its work, destroying the lyrium in his armor. “The lyrium,” he moaned. “I need it.”

“Poor sod,” the Iron Bull said softly.

Thinking of Cullen and how hard it had been for him to give up the regular lyrium, Ren couldn’t help but feel some pity for Samson as well; but she felt more triumph. Corypheus might be unkillable, but it would take him a long time to replace his general and his Red Templar army.

Samson lay there, lack of the lyrium leaching the energy out of him. “Not … the Well. You can’t … take it … from Corypheus,” he gasped, as if each breath were its own challenge. “You mustn’t …” And then he collapsed entirely.

Ren looked down at the husk of a man left behind. “We’ll have the soldiers collect him and take him back to Skyhold for judgment.”

There were sounds of a scuffle behind her, at the top of the steps. “Morrigan!” Ren said, having forgotten all about the witch. She turned and ran up the steps.

Morrigan was drawing a dagger out of the elf’s body as they reached the top. Abelas fell at their feet.

Solas let out a great cry and dropped to his knees next to Abelas’s body. “What have you done?”

“He sought to destroy the Well of Sorrows,” Morrigan said, simply and unapologetically.

“That was his choice, not ours!” Ren snapped.

Morrigan regarded her as if she were a small, foolish child. “The Well clearly offers power, Inquisitor. If that power can be turned against Corypheus, used to find a way to kill him, can you afford not to use it?”

“And if it can’t?”

“Then you have lost nothing.” She turned toward the Well, as if she couldn’t take her eyes from it. “I am the best suited to use the Well’s knowledge—in your service, Inquisitor.”

“More likely, to your own ends,” Solas muttered.

Morrigan ignored him. “Let me drink, Inquisitor.”

Ren looked at Solas. Surely it was his right. 

But he shook his head. “No,” he said, almost angrily. “Do not ask me again.”

“I have the best chance of making use of the Well,” Morrigan said insistently. “Let me drink!”

“You seem bent on it. Who’s stopping you?”

Morrigan turned to look at her in surprise. “You do not wish to drink from it?”

“Me? What does some ancient elven knowledge have to do with me? I’m not an elf, I’m not interested in ancient lore or ancient wisdom. I just want to kill Corypheus and get this over with!”

“Then … I will drink?” Morrigan asked softly. Clearly she could sense Ren’s reluctance, because her voice sharpened as she said, “What happens when Corypheus comes for you again? He is immortal! The wisdom of the Well may be the only way we will know how to destroy him.”

Sighing, Ren bowed to the inevitable. “It’s yours.”

Morrigan smiled, stepping into the Well, drinking deeply, sinking below the surface of the water, which formed a cloud around her and disappeared. Kneeling in the center, she seemed disoriented, her words coming in elvhen at first. But there was no time to help her acclimate.

Across the courtyard, Corypheus appeared, crying out in rage when he determined what had occurred. He flew at them. Ren pulled her daggers, waiting for him to come. This was hers to do. There were no tainted creatures nearby; maybe if she killed him now, it would be the last time she would need to.

Behind her, she was vaguely aware of something happening, of feet moving, but she ignored it all, focusing on Corypheus.

Then a familiar strong arm closed around her waist, lifting her off her feet. She struggled against it. “No! Let me kill him! Let me fight!”

But the Iron Bull was deaf to her protests, and he hauled her through the eluvian, and through the Crossroads between mirrors, and back into Skyhold.


	51. Dilemma

They stumbled out of the eluvian, and the Iron Bull let Ren down. 

Back on her feet again, she whirled on him immediately. “What the fuck was that?”

“You can’t kill him,” he said. “I wasn’t going to bring doom on the whole world by letting you stay there and get killed yourself. I couldn’t.”

“That was not your call to make.” Seeing Cole staring at her in distress and Solas turn away out of delicacy, Ren reined in her temper. Morrigan was sinking woozily into a chair, still reeling from her dip in the Well of Sorrows, it appeared. Ren hoped she enjoyed it, whatever it brought her; she had certainly asked for anything that came.

Ren stalked out of the room, the Iron Bull behind her, and they took to the battlements, both feeling that there was more to say.

As soon as they found themselves in an open stretch, she turned on him again. “How dare you! That was my job, taking on Corypheus. You had no right to interfere!”

“How dare I? You fucking promised you were never going to pull that crap again, and then, next time Corypheus shows up, there you are, trying to stay behind and fight him on your own again.”

“That’s what I’m here for, in case you’ve forgotten.” She held up her hand, the Anchor’s glow facing toward him. “This says that as long as Corypheus lives, I can’t rest until I kill him.”

“You can’t do that alone!”

“Yes. I can. I have to. At the end, that’s what it’s going to come down to—him and me.”

“And me. Because as long as Corypheus lives, I can’t rest until I make sure he doesn’t kill you.” The Iron Bull’s voice cracked on the words.

Ren sighed, looking out over the battlements. “I seem to recall someone saying to me once that who lives and who dies is never going to be my call. That as leader of the Inquisition, I had to accept that people were going to die for it. Well, guess what? One of those people is probably going to be me. And if I have to accept that, then so do you.” She closed her eyes briefly. “That could have been my moment. He had lost everything; there were no tainted creatures there for him to jump to. It could be over now, but you had to make the decision for me, and now we have to wait, and try to bring him to bay again, and who knows what he’s going to do in the meantime.” Feeling very tired, she said softly, “You had no right to take that decision from me. No right. You wanted me to be the Inquisitor—you’re going to have to learn to live with the consequences and let me lead.” 

And she left him there on the battlements, heading down into Skyhold proper to see what could be made of the mess left by the Arbor Wilds and the Temple of Mythal.

The Iron Bull stood where she had left him, struggling with her words. She was wrong about Corypheus—she couldn’t have killed him in the temple. She was too tired, had expended too much energy battling her way through the Temple, and Corypheus had been enraged. He would have brought everything he had to bear on her, and she couldn’t have stood under it. And the Iron Bull was by no means as sure as Ren was that there had been no tainted bodies nearby; he thought Corypheus would have found a way.

But on the other hand, she had been right to throw his own words back at him. How could he expect her to let him stand at her side, to fight and to fall in her defense if necessary, if he couldn’t even consider the idea of her dying? He had made her the Inquisitor; he had set out specifically to mold and shape her into the leader she had become, and he’d done a damned good job. As had she. He had to be able to step back and let her lead, as she had said … but could he do it at the cost of her life?

This thing with her had blossomed so unexpectedly into something he’d never imagined possible that he had lost sight of where it had started. Had allowing it to reach this pitch of emotion and fevered happiness put her in danger by making him fear for her life? That had never been what this was supposed to be about; it was supposed to be about what she needed, not about his feelings.

Slowly he made his way down the stairs to the gardens, and through them into the main keep. He needed to think, he knew that, but he didn’t want to. Every time his mind went near the thought that he had to step back from her, from the way they were together, and give some consideration to the idea that he might lose her to Corypheus, he shrank away. Maybe that was shameful, but he had to face it; she had changed him in a fundamental way, given him something he had never looked for, and at the same time he had lost something, too: his perspective, his objectivity, his stoicism.

As he went by Varric, the dwarf looked up. “Hey, Tiny. Our fair ambassador was looking for you; said if I saw you to send you her way.”

“Josephine? She was?”

“So she said.”

“You know what it’s about?”

Varric shook his head, but as always, there was a sense that he knew more than he was saying. Something in his face was soft, almost sympathetic.

The Iron Bull’s curiosity was piqued; what could Josephine have to say to him? She was friendly enough, but usually busy with the nobles who came to visit. Whatever it was, it had to at least be a distraction from his dark thoughts. He knocked on the door of her office.

Josephine looked up with relief in her eyes, along with something else the Iron Bull couldn’t quite put his finger on. “You got my message, I see. Do come in. And—lock the door. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Sure.” He did as she asked. “Something wrong?”

“While you were in the Arbor Wilds, I received a letter for you.” She handed it to him across the desk. 

The writing wasn’t familiar to him, clear and elegant and sharply pointed. “Do you know what this is?”

“It comes from Corentin Trevelyan.”

The Iron Bull lifted his head, meeting Josephine’s eyes. Ren’s father? Josephine waited, holding his gaze squarely. “You’d like me to read this now so that we can discuss the contents,” he said.

“Yes.”

He nodded, breaking the seal on the parchment and sinking into the chair across from Josephine’s desk, glad that it was a sturdy piece of furniture that didn’t creak under his weight.

_To the mercenary captain The Iron Bull:_  
_Dear Serah,_  
_It has come to my attention that you are involved with my daughter, Alys Trevelyan, who styles herself as “Ren”. As I learned long ago that counseling Alys on what is best for her is so much wasted breath, I take this moment to speak to you man to man about my daughter’s future._  
_I have done considerable research on you since I first heard of this liaison, and it is my impression that you are a man of the world, and a man who understands what the responsibilities of those in positions of power are, to themselves and to their people. I confess, I never expected my daughter to become the head of such a powerful entity as the Inquisition. After the death of her mother, I am afraid she rather got lost in what I perceived to be the greater necessity of training her brothers as my heirs; that she has managed to teach herself all the lessons that I should have given her speaks volumes about her resourcefulness and her strength of purpose, and eternally shames me for my neglect of her._  
_It is apparent to me that someone who can rise from Alys’s unfortunate lack of upbringing to the position she now holds can achieve a greatness unparalleled in Thedas, and with her, the Inquisition. But, as I think we both know, she cannot do so in a relationship with a Qunari. No matter what the situation may be between you, the world is not ready for such a liaison, and it will come back upon her at some point, probably when she most needs the support of those who will not approve._  
_And so I speak to you as a father who wants to see his child reach the pinnacles she seems so evidently destined for—if you care for my daughter, if you also wish to see her become all that she can be, let her go. If your purpose in this relationship is more mercenary, I am not fool enough to think I can outbid the position of paramour to the Inquisitor, but I would be willing to provide whatever incentives are in my power. Should that fail … there are other ways, but they are far less pleasant for both of us, and I would hate for our sakes and for Alys’s to have to resort to them._  
_People I respect feel you to be a man of honor, however, and it is my hope that they are correct and you will see the necessity for the course of action I am asking you to take. Not for me, certainly, or for yourself, but for her._  
_Cordially yours,_  
_Corentin Trevelyan_

The Iron Bull rolled the parchment back up. It was absolutely silent in the room; he was aware of Josephine’s eyes on him. They had been fixed on him the entire time he’d been reading the letter. At last, he lifted his head and met her gaze. “You know what that said.”

“I have a good idea.” There was sympathy in her look, but it was unyielding for all that. “He is not wrong.”

“No. He’s not.” The Iron Bull wasn’t sure what to make of the overall tone of the letter. He sounded like a different man than the one Ren described. Then again, she saw her father with the biased eyes of childhood; there was nothing to say he might not have changed as he aged, or have been different all along than she had thought him to be.

And it didn’t matter, in the end, what Bann Trevelyan’s motivations or goals might be; because, as Josephine said, he wasn’t wrong. Ren could indeed shake the world to its foundations, if she willed it, as Blackwall had said to her so long ago. But she could never achieve half of what she was meant to do, half of what she deserved, with him at her side. The world was not ready for that; probably wouldn’t be in their lifetimes.

“What will you do?” Josephine asked him softly.

He stood up, tapping the edges of the rolled parchment in his hand so they lined up evenly. “I think that’s between me and the Inquisitor, don’t you?”

“Yes. I believe it probably is.” The sympathy was stronger on her face than it had been before, as she read his answer in what he didn’t say.

The Iron Bull could feel the weight of Josephine’s gaze as he unlocked the door and left the room. He went straight upstairs, glad that Ren was out, stretching out on their bed and burying his face in her pillow, surrounding himself with her scent. He would do what was right, what she needed, what she deserved, but it would be like tearing his heart out to do so. He was going to need some time to get used to the idea.

Ren had spent her day catching up on paperwork, checking in with the various people who kept Skyhold running, and going over equipment in the Undercroft with Dagna and Harritt. A long session in the War Room with Morrigan and her advisors had raised almost as many questions as it had answered. Corypheus and his dragon were gone, no one knew where, but there was a general feeling of certainty that he would lick his wounds and then be back at them, possibly attacking Skyhold directly, as soon as he was able.

Morrigan had become even more insufferable, if possible, now that she held the wisdom of the Well of Sorrows within her. Ren didn’t regret the decision not to drink from the Well herself for a moment. She wanted no part of whatever ancientness was whispering in Morrigan’s ear.

The only bright spot in the sky was Morrigan’s revelation that Corypheus’s dragon was not only not an Archdemon, it was also the key to destroying Corypheus’s invulnerability. Morrigan felt sure that she had a way to defeat the dragon, which meant that Ren was back to having a prayer of defeating Corypheus.

She felt badly about yelling at the Iron Bull; he had done only what he had pledged to do from the beginning, watch her back and save her even from herself. And he had been right, she would have been throwing her life away had she stayed. But she had wanted so desperately to have it done … she looked ahead to a wearying wait, never knowing where Corypheus was or when he would strike. But if she had stayed, and fought, and lost, the Inquisition would be in a much worse position right now. The Iron Bull may have saved them all by dragging her away.

It was with that thought in mind that she climbed the stairs to their room, thinking about all the ways she could make it up to him; ways she was likely to enjoy as much as he would.

She didn’t see him when she came up to the room. “Ashkaari?” she called. The intimacy of the name thrilled her, as did the sight of him when she found him braced against the railing of the mountain side balcony. His massive shoulders stood out against the starry sky. Ren’s eyes moved down over his muscular back and over the firmness of his ass.

“Seen enough?” he asked after a moment.

“Never.” She went to him, putting her arms around him and kissing his back. “Wishing on a star?”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Not my style, _kadan_.”

“Is there nothing you wish for?”

There was a faint stiffness in him that she probably wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t had her face pressed against his back. But his voice when he answered was normal. “No use in wishing; you want something, you go get it. Or you get used to the idea that you can’t have it.”

“What has there been that you wanted and couldn’t have?”

“Peace in Seheron,” he said shortly. 

“I’m sorry. That must have been horrible.” Ren hesitated. “You don’t talk about it much.”

“No point, really.” He turned around, tilting her head back with a finger under her chin. “You worried about me?”

“Sometimes. You keep things in. I can’t help wondering if some day your head’s going to explode.” At his chuckle, she smiled briefly, but it faded as she remembered what she had wanted to say. “I’m sorry—about earlier. I was … I just wanted it over with.”

“I know, _ataashi_. You have a valiant heart; you don’t shrink from a fight. It’s one of the things I love about you. But sometimes knowing when to run is as important as being willing to stand and fight.”

“I suppose,” Ren admitted unwillingly. Part of her felt a glow at how casually he dropped ‘love’ into the conversation. It was a tremendous step for him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his thumb stroking her cheek. He remembered that moment in the Temple, watching her ready to fight at whatever cost it may be, and the chill that had seized him before he carried her through that mirror.

Ren remembered it, too, and the way she had turned on him afterward. “I shouldn’t have blamed you because I couldn’t kill him.”

“You will, _kadan_. When the time is right.”

She stood up on her tiptoes, kissing him softly. Then she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him again, more thoroughly this time. “How do you want it?” she breathed in his ear, her tongue running along the sensitive edge.

He chuckled softly. “Isn’t that my line?”

“It’s always about what I want. Tonight, I want it to be about what you want.”

“You don’t have to make anything up to me, _kadan_.”

“I want to.” 

He looked down at her, her face lit up at her own cleverness, turning his desire to give her what she wanted back on him, and his heart constricted. For her future, her potential, he had to end things between them, to give her the space she needed to become everything she could be. And he wanted her to have that space, couldn’t wait to see what she did with it, the woman she would eventually become. So even though she wouldn’t understand, he would do it, and do it cleanly. But … not now. He would give himself this one last night with her.

“Ashkaari?” she said when he didn’t answer.

The Iron Bull put his hands on her ass, pulling her against him, and he dipped his head closer to hers. “What I want is to have you spread out before me, and to use my mouth and hands on you until you’re begging me, ‘please, Ashkaari’.”

“Well,” Ren said breathlessly, “if you insist.”

He stopped her mouth with a hungry kiss, lifting her in his arms and carrying her into the room. He laid her on the rug in front of the fireplace and stripped her clothes off her, admiring the way the firelight played across the lines of her muscles and the curve of her breasts.

And then he set to work, as much for himself as for her, moving over her body thoroughly, memorizing her taste and her scent and the sounds of her pleasure, including the hoarse “Please, Ashkaari” that he had told her he would call from her. And when she had said it often enough, he fit himself inside her, stroking her slowly, slowly, making it last with every ounce of strength that was in him before finally surrendering.

They lay together in front of the fire, listening to the crackle of the flames and lost in their own thoughts.


	52. Until Corypheus

In the morning, Ren woke to find him already up, doing a complicated series of stretches on the balcony. She watched him for a moment, admiring the unexpected grace of that massive body, before getting out of bed and getting dressed. He was finished by the time she was, leaning against the doorway and watching her with a more inscrutable look than usual on his face.

“So, boss, I’ve been thinking.”

“What about?”

“When Corypheus is dead, I’m gonna take the Chargers back to the Storm Coast, get back to being mercs.”

Ren frowned. “Sure, if that’s what you want. I thought it was working out all right to have them based here, though.”

“Yeah, they’ve done good work. But I need to take the reins again, get back out in front, and …” He paused, taking a breath, preparing himself for the words that would make her understand what he really meant. “And my work here will be done then anyway.”

She frowned at him, the words and the thought behind them so unexpected that for a moment they didn’t make sense to her. “Oh,” she said at last, as understanding settled in her, heavy on her shoulders. Ren blinked, trying to keep back the tears that sprang suddenly to life. Her hand went to the dragon’s tooth at her throat. “But I thought you— I mean, you said—“ She clamped down on those words hard, practically biting her tongue. Wherever this conversation might go, she was going to get nowhere with a man like the Iron Bull by whining that he had told her he loved her.

“I do,” he said heavily. “You know I do, _kadan_.” He moved toward her, putting his hand on her head. “That’s why it has to be this way.”

Ren twisted her head out from under his hand, the familiar gesture too much in this moment where suddenly the earth under her feet had disappeared. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, it does. You’ve let yourself be rolled along like a piece of driftwood in the ocean, and you’ve come to rest here, in the Inquisition. Now is your chance to decide who you want to be, what you want to do, what the Inquisition will become under your leadership. But—you can’t do that with me here. No one will take you seriously. And I can’t take the risk of being just another wave, pushing you in a direction that in the long run won’t let you live up to your potential.”

“My potential?” she echoed. “What are you now, my father?” Her temper was rising, and she let it climb, let it drown out the hurt and the sharp grief. “You arrogant ass! I never asked you for any of that. How dare you stand here and act like it’s your job to decide what my future should be, or who it should be with, or what I should do with it? Who the fuck do you think you are?” There was a momentary silence, his face determinedly impassive, giving Ren the strong, and infuriating, impression that he had predicted everything she had said, and everything she might continue to say. Well, she was damned if she was going to stand here and keep reciting a script he had already prewritten. “You know what? Fine. You want it this way, then you get out.”

Without another word, he went.

Ren threw herself into work, pushing the morning’s conversation, and her hurt and anger, away every time they tickled the back of her mind. She needed space, needed to separate herself from the conversation somehow if she were going to be able to look at it with anything like clear eyes. 

Finally, everything was done, even the busy work that hadn’t actually needed her attention. She stood on the balcony of her quarters, alone, looking down at Skyhold. She didn’t see the Iron Bull; hadn’t, in fact, seen him all day. Wherever he was keeping himself, he was out of her sight. She had expected no less, really. Ben-Hassrath, after all, as he would say. She wondered if it was the Ben-Hassrath training that made him think he knew better than she did what she needed in her life.

And that opened the floodgates, that speculation. She let her emotions take her, pacing her quarters and ranting and throwing things and weeping and trying out all the arguments that hadn’t occurred to her this morning, until the storm passed and left her calm and able to think again.

He was arrogant. He had never denied that. He thought he knew better than everyone else; he had never denied that, either. Their entire relationship was based on him thinking he understood her needs, better than she did, really … and she had never doubted before that he did, said a small, quiet voice that floated up from the back of her mind, where she had firmly buried it beneath her anger and her grief.

Ren braced her arms on the railing and looked up at the stars. What if he was right? she asked herself. She knew she had let herself be tossed about by the waves, making a spot on whatever beach she washed up on. But she was the leader of the Inquisition now, and she was about to accomplish what the Inquisition had been created to do. Once she killed Corypheus—assuming, for the sake of argument, that she could kill him—what then? Where would the Inquisition go? Where would she, Morvoren Alys Trevelyan, lead the Inquisition? 

Standing there, she was forced to admit that the Iron Bull, damn his arrogant hide, had been right. She needed to decide who she wanted to be and to figure out how to become that person … and she couldn’t let him and his undeniable force of personality cloud the issue. Whatever lay ahead for them, if anything did, they both had to be absolutely certain it was what she wanted, and that it wasn’t just her going along with what he thought she needed.

It was a lot to come to terms with, and while Ren’s generally impulsive, decisive attitude had her wanting to make a declaration of who she was and who she would be and have that be that, something told her that wasn’t the way to go this time. She wasn’t going to overcome a lifetime of drifting, or be able to make informed decisions about the fate of the Inquisition with anything like the confidence she would need, without some serious contemplation. And she would have to do that contemplating alone; she accepted that. 

Down below, someone opened the door into the tavern, sending a block of light across the darkness of the courtyard. 

He would be there, with the Chargers, the man she loved. And she did love him, in a way she had never imagined loving anyone, never known was possible. She knew what it had cost him to leave her this morning, and to do it honestly, without making up some reason for her to hate him or manipulating her into thinking it was her idea. And she knew how he would be feeling now—lost, alone, uncertain—because she felt the same way.

In that knowledge, she made a decision. She might not know what she wanted to do next year, but she knew what she wanted to do—what she needed to do—right now.   
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull looked down his outstretched legs, keeping his eye focused on the tips of his scuffed boots. Not that they were particularly interesting, but they were better for his peace of mind than looking up every time the tavern door opened, his heart pounding with a hope he knew he shouldn’t be feeling. Or, worse, looking up to find Krem’s eyes on him, his second-in-command as usual knowing a lot more about the situation than he should.

The Chargers were in good form tonight, jokes and songs and stories crowding on top of one another. The Iron Bull was well aware that they were exerting themselves on his behalf; he had himself encouraged them to do the same for other members of the company when they’d had low days. He appreciated the effort, and tried to join in the songs with his usual enthusiasm, but his heart wasn’t in it. His heart was on the other side of Skyhold with a woman who was probably throwing things and cursing his name—all his names. Not that he blamed her.

Still, it had needed to be done. Without him, she was free to move forward with her life, free to lead the Inquisition as she saw fit, to eventually make a match that was worthy of her, to get married and raise a family—all the things he could never have offered her.

He could practically map out the future; there would be a period of longing, probably some relapse sex here and there, which would fade into the occasional nostalgic round or two when their paths crossed, and by the time she settled down what they had once been to each other would be a distant memory. Lifting his hand to the dragon’s tooth at his throat, he tried to think of that as a consolation, but right now the very idea of losing this feeling was making him feel as bereft as he’d felt when Gatt declared him Tal-Vashoth.

He was on the verge of setting his untouched ale on the table and getting up to leave when suddenly a hush rippled across the room, followed by a roll of whispers.

“Damn, Chief,” said Rocky, next to him. “You are one lucky bastard.”

The Iron Bull wasn’t sure what his Charger meant—until he raised his head and looked at the door of the tavern. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard it open this time, and his breath caught in his chest at the sight of her.

He would have been prepared to see her eyes flashing with anger, or to see her pale and sorrowful, with evidence of tears. His bets would have been on the first. But this … he had never seen her look so sexy. Her hair was just slightly tousled, her eyes lined with a dark blue that made them and the paler blue tattoos around them stand out, her lips a rich crimson, and her jacket was off, her shirt buttoned low, leaving a tantalizing glimpse of just the top swell of her breasts and the way they moved as she walked. And, of course, those wickedly tight pants. 

She came toward the group of the Chargers, walking like she owned the place, instead of trying to act as though she was of the rank and file the way she usually did. There was a smoothness to her walk that was unusual, an awareness of her sexuality that had the Iron Bull hard just watching her. And he was watching her; couldn’t take his eye off her. Probably that was her goal, to torment him with what he had given up. He wouldn’t have put this approach high on the list of possibilities, but he had considered it.

At least, he had considered it up to the point where she sat on his lap, plucked his ale out of his hand, and started drinking it. That hadn’t made the list at all.

“What are you doing?” he asked her, even as he was putting his feet flat on the floor to make a firmer seat for her and sitting up straighter to get closer to her. He was aware of the Chargers shifting away from them, giving them privacy.

“What’s it look like?” Ren asked him. “I’m drinking your ale.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” He’d seen that wide-eyed innocent stare before.

“I’m not going to change my mind, _kadan_.” Probably that would have sounded more final if his arms hadn’t been sliding around her waist to pull her more firmly against him.

“Perish the thought! You, the mighty all-knowing Ben-Hassrath-trained Iron Bull, change your mind? I would never imagine such a thing.”

“So what are you doing?” he asked again, ignoring her sarcasm. 

“Last I checked, unless someone’s killed him and didn’t tell me, Corypheus isn’t dead yet. And since you said after Corypheus was dead, I figure nothing’s really changed.” Her eyes still on him, she took a deep swallow of the ale, her tongue licking a stray droplet off her full red lower lip.

The Iron Bull stifled a groan. Sitting the way she was, she had to be able to feel how she was affecting him. Even if he had wanted to, saying no to this approach, which he had absolutely not predicted, would have been difficult. 

“Well?” she said, when he didn’t respond.

“So you’re saying we leave things as they’ve been until Corypheus is dead?”

She shifted in his lap, her beautifully rounded rear against his cock, and he bit back another groan. “Isn’t that what I said?”

Desperately holding on to his control, which had never been quite this difficult before, he said, “And you don’t expect me to change my mind?”

“Naturally not.” Her blue eyes were still wide and innocent, with a hint of a wicked smile.

He took the mug from her hand, taking a long gulp of the ale. “ _Kadan_ , you make it very hard to do the right thing.”

“Good. Hard was exactly what I was going for.” She wriggled again, then whispered in his ear, “Now, either we’re going to argue about this and fuck, or we’re going to agree about it and make love, but we can’t do either one in the middle of the tavern in front of the Chargers.” 

The Iron Bull tangled his hand in her hair, holding her head still, and he kissed her, regardless of the tavern full of people around them, or of the whistles, applause, and catcalls that filled the room in response.

Ren emerged from the kiss grinning in triumph. “We going now?”

“Absolutely. In a second.” He nudged her off his lap and took a moment to think of all the least-sexy things he could imagine before he felt comfortable standing up—and even at that, he was glad to be wearing baggy pants.

Krem was grinning at them as they went by, and the Iron Bull was very sure he would be getting crap from his lieutenant tomorrow … but equally sure tonight would be worth it.

Outside the tavern, he said, “ _Kadan_.”

“We’ll talk upstairs. Okay?”

“Sure.” He followed her through the keep and up the familiar stairs to what he supposed was still their quarters, since she didn’t seem to be willing to end things.

Taking him by the hand, she led him to the floor in front of the fireplace, sinking down onto the rug. He followed, taking her face in his hands as he knelt in front of her, looking into her eyes, trying to put what he felt into words so she could really understand. “I love you, _kadan_. I want to be here with you, more than I can say, but I also want to see you become all the awesome things you can be; I couldn’t stand to think that I got in your way, that you chose a lesser path because of me, or that there were opportunities not open to you because of what’s between us.”

Ren sighed. “You are an arrogant ass,” she told him again. “But you’re not wrong. It’s time for me to decide who I am and what I want and where this Inquisition is going to go, and I don’t have any idea what the answers are to all of that. But I know this, right now—I can’t do this without you, and I can’t be here with you and not be with you. You are—“ Her voice cracked, and she took a breath to compose herself. “I need you, Ashkaari, in every way.” 

She kissed him then, her mouth moving from his across his cheek and along his jaw. The Iron Bull closed his eye, tilting his head into her kiss, feeling the warmth of her mouth exploring down the side of his neck, her fingers at the buckles of his harness, and then on his shoulders, exploring the contours of the muscles there. 

Gently he nudged her back, looking at the swell of her breasts framed by the opening of her shirt. He knew every inch of those breasts, every taste, but having them there tantalizingly on display but still hidden was maddening. His hands moved to her buttons, slowly loosing them one by one until he could push the shirt off her shoulders, and then deftly he did away with the breastband, letting the soft mounds fall into his hands, weighing them and massaging them. Ren’s head fell back, her eyes closing in pleasure as he suckled first one and then the other, brushing his lips across the wet, hard nipples and grazing them with his teeth. 

Ignoring his groan of protest she disentangled herself and attacked her bootlaces, tugging the offending footwear off with some difficulty. The Iron Bull grinned at her, kicking off his own boots.

“Show off,” Ren grumbled. She lifted her hips, sliding her pants down over the curve of her delectable rear. The Iron Bull tugged them off the rest of the way, letting his hand travel slowly back up her calf, stroking the delicate skin at the back of her knee.

Ren sighed, parting her legs, allowing him to move his hand farther and farther up until he was stroking her. He let his tongue trail over the same path, dancing along her flesh as her hips rose Her hands were on his horns now, urging him up her body. He made his way slowly, kissing the curve of her hip and the line of her ribcage, pausing to rub the bearded edge of his jaw against her breasts, before finding her mouth with his again.

He could feel her hands on him through his pants, and then the pants were being shoved out of the way. He kicked his way out of them, awkwardly, still kissing her, and moaned into her mouth at the sureness of her hands. She knew what he liked, the firm touching, the teasing caresses, and his hips thrust against her hands of their own volition.

“Ashkaari,” Ren whispered at last.

“Yes.” She was more than ready, and he slid easily inside her.

She was clinging to his shoulders as he moved within her, uttering little cries of pleasure that made his knees go weak. He gathered her close into his arms, moving with determination now, feeling her tighten as the tension built within her until it snapped and she cried out with it. A few more thrusts sent him after her, and then he carried her to the bed, climbing in beside her and pulling the covers up over them.

Ren pressed herself against his side. “You won’t go, then? Not until Corypheus?”

“I won’t go until Corypheus.” It would be harder then, he thought, to leave her a second time. Or would it be easier because he could make a cleaner break? Either way, it was one of the few things she had ever asked of him, and unquestionably the easiest. He couldn’t forget her words from earlier—“I need you, Ashkaari, in every way.” For words like that, from a woman like this, he would have said yes to almost anything she asked.


	53. Companions

Ren went down to talk to Morrigan in her garden the next morning, finding the witch pacing restlessly, muttering to herself. “A lot going on in there right now?” she asked.

Morrigan turned to look at her. “Finally have your mind on your work?” she snapped in response.

Refusing to be baited, Ren smiled. “Can’t do much until Corypheus shows himself.”

“I believe you are incorrect, Inquisitor. I believe there is something you can do.” Morrigan smirked at her. “Something you will enjoy.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. While I believe I can counteract the dragon that accompanies Corypheus, it will also be useful for you to be prepared to face it. And in that endeavor, the best thing you can do is continue your path of desolation through the dragon population of southern Thedas.”

“You want me to kill a dragon?” Ren grinned widely. “That’s a lot easier than most of what I get asked to do.”

“I thought you would see it that way.”

“And what will you be doing?”

“Readying myself. There is much to be done.”

“Does that include talking to the voices in your head?”

Morrigan glared at her, and Ren left the witch alone before she decided the Inquisitor would be better off as a toad.

She went back to her quarters looking for Ashkaari, but he was out somewhere. Flissa was there, however, straightening up Ren’s desk. She looked up quizzically as Ren came in. “Inquisitor.”

“Haven’t we gotten past that yet? I thought we were friends.”

“We are.” Flissa smiled. “Old habits and all.” Her smile faded, and she looked at Ren with narrowed eyes. “Speaking of old habits …”

Ren groaned. “Krem told you?”

Flissa nodded. “Of course he did.”

Carrying the battle into the enemy’s camp, so to speak, Ren asked, “How are the two of you? Every time I see you together you seem so … happy, but it can’t be that easy. Can it?”

“Pretty much. I mean, that night in the tavern, with Cole, that helped. I think Krem was afraid I was developing a fascination with his past, with who he was—what he looked like, you know—before. But I don’t care. I love him now, today, for just who he is. Whatever he was before …” She shrugged. “I have things in my past I’d rather he didn’t pry into, so I get it.”

“It doesn’t bother you that there’s so much of who he used to be that you don’t know?” Ren thought of the Iron Bull’s time on Seheron, of his life in the Qun. Try as she might, she would never truly understand what any of that had been like for him—and if she couldn’t, would she ever truly understand him?

Flissa looked thoughtful. “Not really,” she said at last. “I mean, there are parts of my past that I wish he understood better, but it wouldn’t be the same as being with someone who had been there, you know? So I figure it’s the same for him.”

“Maker, you’re … grown up.”

They both laughed at that.

Flissa said, “You ducked the question. Don’t think I didn’t notice. What was up yesterday?”

Part of Ren thought she should keep quiet, keep what was between them between them … but part of her needed to talk this out with a friend. She started to open her mouth to tell Flissa everything … then thought better of it. “Momentary misunderstanding,” she said. If she told Flissa, Flissa would tell Krem. And while Ren trusted Krem, and the Iron Bull trusted Krem, she was uncomfortable setting that chain of events in motion.

“Right.” Flissa looked at her for another moment, then turned away. “You tell me if you think you need to.”

“I’m sorry, it’s not that … I get so used to not talking,” Ren said, worried that she had insulted her friend.

“I get it. Really, I do.” Flissa smiled. “Some things are too close to the heart to talk about, especially when they’re confusing.” At Ren’s startled look, she laughed. “I was a bartender for a long time. Not quite like being in the Ben-Hassrath, or so I’m told,” she said with an impish look, “but you learn to read people pretty well.” More seriously, she added, “Look, if you’re not going to talk to me … talk to someone.”

“Sure.” Ren left her quarters, feeling that that advice was more easily given than taken. Who could she trust to talk to who wouldn’t turn around and talk to the Iron Bull?

And then fate stepped in and gave her an answer. In the courtyard, she saw a single horse being unsaddled, and a tall, familiar figure with a shock of brown hair climbing the steps toward her. 

“Hawke!”

He grinned as he came closer. “The very same. Came as soon as I got your letter; heard about the Arbor Wilds on the way. Corypheus still out there waiting for the final ass-kicking?”

“Absolutely.” She hugged him impulsively. 

“For a welcome like this, I should have come sooner. Although Isabela kept me pretty busy when she heard how beautiful you are. Reminding me where my heart is bound, if you will. I told her you were otherwise occupied … but I didn’t protest too hard.”

“Say no more. I can imagine Bull reacting the same way.” She hesitated. “Actually … do you have some time? I wanted to talk to you.”

Hawke nodded. “I’m all yours. Came to stay until Corypheus is gone.” He looked over her shoulder. “I should check in with Varric, though, or he’ll kill me.”

“I’ll come with you. Hey, how are you with dragons?”

“Fair, I suppose? I’ve only fought the one … but we all lived and it didn’t, so I suppose that says something.”

“Good. We’ve got to go kill a dragon, get prepared for the one Corypheus brings along with him.”

Hawke shook his head. “I remember living an exciting life like yours.”

“You miss it?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t get bored?”

Hawke laughed. “You’ve never met Isabela, or you wouldn’t need to ask.”

“And … that’s all you need?”

“Just me and the Admiral of the Eastern Seas?” He looked at her, his brown eyes studying her face, and more seriously, he said, “You know, there’s the whole fleet of pirates, and various sea battles and islands to land on, and … we find a fair amount to do.” Hawke stopped walking altogether, catching Ren by the arm. “You thinking of making some changes?”

“I don’t know, really. I’m just … trying to decide what I want, you know?”

“Oh, I know. I spent years doing that in Kirkwall. It’s tiring.”

“You can say that again.”

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

"Pretty much."

"Got it. Whenever you're ready, I'm all ears ... or shoulders, depending," he added, displaying a particularly well-formed shoulder. Not as nice as her Ashkaari's, though, Ren thought.

They kept moving up the steps, entering the keep. It was impossible to miss the way Varric’s face lit up at the sight of Hawke, and Ren felt a sudden stab of something like envy. Would her friends feel that way about her, if she went away and came back? The Inquisition was the first time she had really had friends; Dooley’s mercs had liked her well enough, but they’d accepted her more because Dooley and Zadra had taken her under their wings than because of anything intrinsic in Ren herself.

Varric and Hawke were exchanging greetings, and Ren started to drift away, to let them be alone, but Hawke called her back. “You had something to talk about,” he reminded her.

“Well …” She tried not to look at Varric, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about this in front of him.

The dwarf chuckled. “What Rusty’s trying not to say is that she doesn’t trust me not to be a conduit of information rather than a repository.”

“You sound like Fenris,” Lucas said dryly.

“Perish the thought.” Varric patted a chair. “I’ll tell you what, you two talk and I’ll pretend I’m not here.”

A thought came to her. “Or … I think there’s a story I’d like to hear you tell. And Hawke, here, too.”

Hawke raised his eyebrows, looking at both of them. “There is?”

Varric sighed heavily. He turned Bianca around so that her face was to the wall. “There is. The story.” At Hawke’s widened eyes, he nodded. “I wrote you about … the thaig, and the Deep Roads, and …” He looked at Ren. “I’m not making any promises, Rusty, but … go ahead and ask.”

“Well, I’m curious about how you and … you know who met, first off. You seem to come from very different backgrounds.”

“You can say that again. Bianca’s family are very traditional surface dwarves, if you can imagine such a thing, and mine were … not. But once upon a time, I had a need for someone with … mechanical skills. Bianca is, beyond a doubt, the most brilliant smith you’ll ever meet.”

“You, and a girl who works with her hands?” Lucas leaned forward on his elbow. “I don’t see it.”

“They do say opposites attract,” Ren said.

“You and Rivaini weren’t exactly the world’s most obvious couple at first, either,” Varric said to Hawke. “And look at you now.”

“So why haven’t we heard of Bianca, if she’s so brilliant?” Ren tried to keep the skepticism out of her tone, but she hadn’t been impressed by Bianca in the least.

“She got married a while back and moved to Orlais; I think she’s been trying to establish herself. But she likes to work on things no one’s ever heard of; they’re a tough sell, sometimes, and they’re dangerous even to think about, other times.”

“She’s married? But …”

“But you thought we had a thing?” Varric smiled grimly. “Her family arranged her marriage, to a nice smith caste boy. Wealthy, respected, has a great anvil collection … and the brains of one. Perfect husband.”

Hawke shook his head. “And you just let her get married?”

Varric laughed. “No one ‘just lets’ Bianca do anything.”

“Did you try to stop her?”

“Nope.”

“So what makes the Merchants’ Guild such a danger to her?” Ren asked. 

Varric raised his eyebrows. “Me. Technically, we’re not supposed to be within three hundred leagues of one another. I’m pretty sure Smith Caste Boy had that written into their prenup. So if it got back to the Guild that we were seen together, they’d freeze my assets. And then have me killed. Possibly not in that order.”

“So that’s why you had me deposit so much of your money in my name,” Hawke exclaimed. “It all makes sense now.”

“Maybe it was Wicked Grace winnings of Rivaini’s. You never know.” 

“How long has it been, Varric?”

“How long have we been keeping most of a continent between us at all times?”

“Right. Well … really, why?”

He shrugged. “Why not? Shit, it’s been what, fifteen years? Hard to let go of old habits, maybe. Maybe I’ve just never found anyone else like her. Maybe …”

“Maybe you’re scared that if you do find someone else, you’ll actually have to get out of your chair and do something about it?” Hawke asked.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Varric turned and looked at Ren, his brown eyes as direct and open as she had ever seen them. “So there you have it, Rusty. Here am I, drifting along with the blowing wind, nothing more substantial than a pile of letters connecting me to another person, and there’s Hawke, anchored firmly to a fleet of ships and the big hat at the top. That help you with your problem?”

“No.” Ren frowned. “Maybe? I’ll have to think about it.”

“You do that.” Varric stood up. “Meanwhile, it’s no Hanged Man, but I think the Herald’s Rest has some potent beverages guaranteed to give a person new troubles to think about.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Hawke shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “If Isabela finds out I came here to drink instead of fight, she’ll—“

“Show up? Wouldn’t that be a shame.” Varric chuckled.

“I’m not sure Skyhold’s ready for my pirate.”

“We have enough pirates already.” 

Thinking of the Iron Bull, and that piratical eye patch he wore, Ren grinned. “You can say that again.”

After a night of cards and drinking, Ren really wasn’t feeling like she wanted to get on a horse and ride out to go kill a dragon the next morning … but it was time. Whatever Corypheus was planning, he wasn’t going to wait much longer. 

She rode with Hawke and Varric, aware that the Iron Bull was hanging back but not entirely sure why.

He wouldn’t have wanted her to know, either. The Iron Bull was, to put it bluntly, jealous. He could admit that freely without having the faintest fucking clue what to do about it. Hawke was taken, he knew that … but was it permanent? Hawke was tall, and good-looking, and human, and charming, and he made Morvoren laugh, and he was from a Marcher noble family the way she was, and he could marry her and give her children and everything the Iron Bull could never offer her. And he’d been a fucking hero; sure, the situation in Kirkwall had gone to shit several times over, but Hawke had emerged from it every time, and brought most of the city with him. The Iron Bull would have given a lot to have been at the duel between Hawke and the Arishok.

The Iron Bull thought about his vow to leave Ren when Corypheus was dead, and he felt a burning despair at the knowledge that sooner or later she would be in someone else’s bed, at someone else’s side, and happy to be there. It was what she needed, what she deserved, and he was comfortable in that knowledge, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Ren reined her horse in, letting him catch up to her. “You’re quiet today.”

“Hangover,” he said succinctly. It was a lie, but better than the truth.

“You didn’t even drink that much.”

“Maybe I’m just getting old.”

She eyed him up and down. “Not so as anyone could notice.”

“Qunari age gracefully, what can I say.”

“How old are you? Or do Qunari count time differently, too?”

“No, it passes about the same for us as it does for anyone else.”

“So?” Ren frowned. “You really are taciturn today. I would have thought you’d be more amped up, getting ready to go kill a dragon.”

“Nah. Too many people.” He didn’t just mean Hawke, either. Ren had brought the entire crew of companions on this one, to make sure everyone had the chance at a dragon. There was no telling which of them, if not all, would be tasked with facing Corypheus next to her, so she wanted to be certain.

She grinned wickedly. “We’ll find a way.”

In spite of himself, he chuckled. “I like the way you think, _kadan_.”

They rode in silence for a few moments. Then Ren said, “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“After … after Corypheus, and before … you know …”

“Yeah?”

“What do you say we go kill a dragon together? Just the two of us. Think of it—you, me, all that glorious mass of dragon shrieking above us, and then, after we kill it, all the time in the world.” She winked. “ _Taarsidath-an halsaam_.”

He had a mental image of his Morvoren, naked and glowing and smeared with dragon’s blood, and the sudden spike of arousal had him catching his breath audibly enough for her to hear him.

She grinned. “I see we have a winning idea.”

The Iron Bull cleared his throat, glancing at her in amusement. “Yeah, I think that can be arranged. If you insist.”

“Oh, I definitely do.”

It was something to look forward to; a fitting farewell to everything they were together and everything they could have been, in a different world, another life.

But in the meantime, there was this dragon ahead of them, deep in the Emerald Graves. As they journeyed through the greenery, the companions discussed how they would handle it. The group of them had never fought all together before. 

Vivienne, Solas, and Dorian got into an argument about which spells were most useful against dragons. Hawke, knowing a few things about magic thanks to his family heritage, joined in and was promptly shouted down by both Dorian and Vivienne.

Blackwall hung to the side, exchanging comments with Cassandra, both of them staying far away from the boisterous group of mages. 

Sera and Ren and Varric were seeing who could come up with the wittiest piece of dragon-related doggerel.

Which reminded the Iron Bull that he had promised to write Ren a poem, if she defeated Corypheus. He wasn’t sure why he had promised; he’d never tried to write poetry in his life—never wanted to. But she made him want things that he had never thought of before.

“Her hair flames bright/but her spirit/brightens the darkest night.”

No longer surprised by the spirit’s sudden appearances, he glanced at Cole, frowning. “You can’t write it for me, kid. And that’s a little … basic, don’t you think? Plus, you used ‘bright’ twice.”

Cole ignored the critique. “You’re standing in the light looking toward the dark, The Iron Bull. Why?”

“Because I have to.”

“It hurts you. It hurts her. Why do you have to do something that hurts you both?”

He sighed. “It won’t hurt forever.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. Everything passes eventually.” The Iron Bull was pleased with his answer; let the kid argue the truth of that.

Cole frowned, looking from the Iron Bull to Ren and back again. “Sometimes … I think that sometimes it hurts less if you wait to say it at the right time.”

“You do, huh? Someone teach you that?”

The kid nodded gravely. “Varric. He says there’s something called timing, and it makes a difference in how a person hears the truth they need to hear.”

“Well, Varric would know.”

“He thinks his time has passed.”

“I know he does.” The Iron Bull watched the dwarf. He couldn’t say he’d seen anything in Varric’s Bianca that would make him go celibate for fifteen years, but you never knew what went on in someone’s head … unless you were Cole, of course. “Maybe he doesn’t mind.”

“He doesn’t mind,” Cole affirmed, “but it hurts him anyway.”

“Yeah, I’m not surprised.”

“He uses that hurt, points it with the pen, lets it flow onto the page, and pretends it isn’t his.”

The Iron Bull nodded. “I’d worked that one out for myself. You think Hawke could do anything for him?”

Cole looked at Hawke thoughtfully, then at Varric, then sighed. “No.”

“Didn’t think so. What about you?”

“Varric won’t let me. He can tell when I want to help, and he … goes under it.”

“That’s the way with people sometimes, kid. You’ll just have to get used to it.”

Cole looked up at him, his eyes dark and serious. “No. I won’t.”

“Have it your way.”

The Iron Bull could hear the dragon scream, far ahead, and he felt something in him rise to that call. He roared back, earning stares from some of the companions and applause from others, and a wolf whistle from his kadan. He grinned at her. “We doing this, or what?”

“Come on, people. Let’s take this thing down like it’s a thousand-year-old darkspawn!” Ren called, and everyone cheered.

The festive atmosphere continued even in the face of the dragon. She was big, and powerful, and mighty pissed off, but she didn’t stand a chance. All of Ren’s companions were very good at what they did; when the ten of them—eleven, with Hawke—got together, they were pretty indomitable. 

It gave Ren hope that maybe, just maybe, she would survive the fight with Corypheus. And then what? Watch the love of her life ride off into the sunset without her? No. But what choice was there? He was right, the Inquisitor couldn’t be in a relationship with a Qunari, not without causing a lot of extra trouble for the Inquisition.

The Iron Bull was wondering how she was handling that particular conundrum himself … but he wasn’t going to ask. She was right, this was something she had to work out for herself, and he had to know that he wasn’t making her decisions for her. He would give her the space she needed to think while making sure that she was as protected and cared for as he could make her until he had to let her go.

The dragon gave a last shuddering breath at Sera’s feet and the elf giggled and did a little dance. Ren and the Iron Bull exchanged glances of longing and rueful acknowledgment that their pent-up desire would have to wait until they camped that night.

In camp, in the dubious privacy of their tent, they more than made up for the lost opportunity, teasing each other to the brink of lost control over and over, testing how far they could push before the other made a sound. They weren’t precisely discreet … but they came close.


	54. Corentin Trevelyan in Skyhold

The whole set of companions rode back into Skyhold still laughing. Ren was very pleased with the result of the expedition. Not only had they made short work of the dragon, but they had all grown closer together in the process, learned more about working with each other. Let Corypheus come, she thought. She was ready for him. She was ready for anything.

Or so she thought … until she rode into Skyhold and saw on her balcony a familiar thin, elegant figure, looking down at her. Her heart sank. She could see the superior, disappointed expression on his face from here, or, at least, she thought she could.

Corentin Trevelyan in Skyhold. The moment she had been dreading all along.

She was so distracted that if the horse hadn’t known where it was going, eagerly putting its face into the affectionate hands of the stable boy, she’d have ridden straight into the wall.

Turning away from the man on her balcony, she looked at the man at her side. “Help me down?”

The Iron Bull raised an eyebrow. She was perfectly capable of getting down herself, and generally refused unnecessary help.

“Slowly,” Ren clarified.

He obliged, happy enough to do so, letting her slide slowly, as directed, down the front of his body. But the friction between them wasn’t turning her on. She was stiff, distracted, thinking of something else. So this was a show, then. But for whom?

Ren looked around when she had reached the ground, but the balcony was empty. 

The Iron Bull followed her gaze. He hadn’t seen anyone on the balcony, but if someone she wanted to put on a show for was in their quarters, he was going to give her some space. “I think I’ll check in with Krem, _kadan_. You go on upstairs without me.”

“Yeah. Okay.” She didn’t even look at him, her steps already taking her in that direction.

Josephine was waiting for her in the main keep. “Inquisitor, you have a guest. He’s—“

“My father. I know. I’ll take care of it, Josephine.”

“As you say.”

Ren passed by the ambassador without another word, making her way up to the stairs.   
He was waiting for her in the middle of the room. Thin, tall, elegant, always calm and poised. How she had tried over the years to break that calm.

“Alys,” he said evenly.

“Ren,” she responded pointedly.

Her father looked pained. “Inquisitor, then.”

“Is that why you’re here? Demelza write you and tell you I could use the expert advice of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick?”

“There is no call to be flippant.”

Ren shrugged. “I’ve never needed an invitation.” She glanced around the room, finding Cadoc sitting on her couch. He gave her a small smile. “I’m surprised Father doesn’t have you married off and creating the next generation of Trevelyans yet,” she said to him. Gently, though; a lifetime of being reminded to be careful of her brother’s delicate health was a hard habit to break.

Cadoc squirmed a little. “I believe … there is a betrothal process … underway?” He looked doubtfully at their father.

“We are considering our options.”

“I hope you don’t expect any help from me. I’m no good at arranging suitable marriages.”

“Yes. So I understand,” her father said dryly. “I witnessed your … display in the courtyard.”

“Did you? That’s the Iron Bull. He’s a mercenary, and he used to spy for the Qunari. And he’s my lover.” 

Her father lifted an eyebrow, his lip curling in disgust. “I am aware of that. Although I was under the impression that your unnatural … liaison was … ended.”

Ren frowned. “Why would you think … ?” Suddenly, and with a sinking heart, she knew what had happened, and the anger almost choked her. “Maker’s balls!”

“Alys!” Cadoc sounded scandalized. He ought to have been the one sent to the Chantry, Ren thought.

She ignored him, staring at her father. “It was you. Wasn’t it? What did you do, write him one of your famous letters? Or did you write Josephine and pressure her to talk to him?”

“I did what any responsible father would do when his child was throwing her life away on a person who is unworthy of her!” For once, she had broken through his shell, and his voice rose just slightly.

“Unworthy of me? Father, that is the smartest man I’ve ever known—smarter than you are, which is saying something. If anyone’s unworthy in this relationship, it’s me.”

His face said he didn’t believe her. “Intelligence has nothing to do with worthiness. You are the Inquisitor; you have a responsibility to the people you lead, to the world at large. You have taken a great weight on your shoulders, Alys, and you need to understand the seriousness of the task ahead of you.”

Ren shook her head. “I have to kill a Tevinter magister who has waited a thousand years to try to take over the world. That’s the task ahead of me.”

“And afterward? What becomes of your Inquisition then? Where will you lead it?” He was studying her as though he actually wanted to know what she thought. When she was a little girl, she would have given so much to have him look at her like that … but it was only mildly interesting to her now.

“Who is Cadoc being betrothed to?” she asked instead.

“Felice LeDorneaux appears to be the most likely candidate. Her dowry is adequate, her bloodline pure, and she is in excellent health.”

“You sound as though you’re speaking of a brood mare,” Ren remarked. Her father didn’t argue the point, and she shook her head. “What are you doing here, Father? Why did you come all this way? Did you think you could just step in and take on the role of advisor? Were you so concerned by what Demelza told me that you thought you should come and deliver your lecture in person? Why?”

“You are my daughter.”

“You have forcibly reminded me of that fact.”

“I have an obligation—“

“Yes, you did. You had an obligation to raise me properly; but you didn’t. You had an obligation to help me find a direction in life that would suit me; but you didn’t. All I ever was to you was a disappointment, and eventually a bargaining chip. Well, now I have more power than you have ever dreamed of one of your children possessing, and guess what? You can’t use any of it for your precious estate.” She took a step toward him. Her anger was rising, but she couldn’t let it master her. She had to control her feelings so she could make things very clear to him. “I don’t need your advice, I don’t want your help, and I will not put up with your meddling. Don’t you dare ever try to direct my life again. Am I clear?”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Ren could practically see him trying to turn the situation to his advantage, see him searching for a way to respond to her that would make her feel like a chastened child again. Eventually, he sighed. “Throw away as many opportunities as you like. I wash my hands of you.”

“I wish you’d done that ten years ago,” she said bitterly. “Now, you and Cadoc are welcome to stay; I am certain Ambassador Montilyet would be delighted to see to your needs. But I just got back and I have a number of things to do, so I would appreciate it if you would let me get back to work.”

Her father inclined his head. “As you say.” Without looking at Cadoc, he moved past her toward the stairs. Cadoc followed, hurrying, like a shadow. Or a ghost. He was haunting his own life, she thought with sorrow for her brother. He’d never have a chance to live it.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull was trying to talk with Krem, but he kept being distracted wondering who it was upstairs with his _kadan_. Who could possibly have upset her so much?

And then it struck him. There was only one person it could be: her father. He felt sick to her stomach at the idea. Would Bann Trevelyan tell her about the letter he had sent? The letter hadn’t been what made the Iron Bull decide her future would be brighter without him … but her father wouldn’t know that. She would think he had sided with her father against her. Which he had, but not in the way she would think.

“Chief.” Krem was looking at him with concern. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah. No. Maybe.”

For once, Krem didn’t take the opportunity for a smart-ass remark. “The Inquisitor?”

“Could be. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What a pair you two are. No good comes from keeping things bottled up all the time.”

“Ah, what do you know? A few months with a redhead, you think you have all the answers,” the Iron Bull growled. He sighed. “Sorry, Krem.”

“No worries, Chief. We’ll go over this later.”

“Yeah. Good idea.” The Iron Bull got up and left the tavern, pacing the courtyard, his eye continually glancing up to her—their—balcony. What were they saying to each other up there?

And then a tall, elegant figure exited Skyhold and stood on the landing, looking down at the courtyard. Even before their eyes met, the Iron Bull knew who it was. He didn’t look like Morvoren, but he stood in the midst of Skyhold as though he owned it, and all of Thedas around it.

The Iron Bull held his ground as Ren’s father approached him. “Bann Trevelyan.”

“I need no introduction, then. That’s good.” Those eyes, grey like Demelza’s, studied the Iron Bull coolly and without the usual respect for his size and strength. “Apparently I was unclear in my letter.”

“No, I got the message.”

“Then what is the meaning of the disgusting display I witnessed in the courtyard?”

The Iron Bull debated whether to be flip, but he decided it wasn’t worth antagonizing the man before him. If Morvoren wanted to be at odds with her father, that was her decision. He wasn’t going to make the relationship worse by any sharp words of his. “It takes two to end things,” he said instead.

“Not if the first is trying hard enough.”

Deliberately, the Iron Bull let some part of what he felt for his kadan show in his face.

Corentin Trevelyan nodded his head, slowly, understanding. “You care for her.”

The Iron Bull was silent.

“Then you have to know what will be said of her, if this continues. What will be said of the Inquisition. You will become a danger to her.”

“No shit.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Saving her life. Every time she leaves Skyhold.”

“And when her life no longer needs saving every time she leaves Skyhold?”

The Iron Bull let his silence speak for him.

“I see. Does she know?”

“Yeah.” He felt dirty, standing here talking about this with her father, when he hadn’t even told Krem. But … surely this man had feelings for his daughter, surely he wanted to know someone was looking out for her best interests. “Look, just … leave her be. Corypheus is still out there, waiting. She’s got to focus on that.”

Corentin Trevelyan tapped his fancy walking stick on the ground, considering. “Yes. Yes, I see your point. You have my word, I will not trouble her further until after you have killed Corypheus.”

“Good.” The Iron Bull left his _kadan_ ’s father standing there, not even bothering to glance at the pale shadow behind him who must have been her brother, and he headed for the training ring, hoping to assuage some of his guilt and sorrow by hitting things. A lot of things.


	55. What the Future Holds

When her father and her brother were gone, Ren walked out onto the balcony, looking down at Skyhold spread out below her. Everyone was busy; everyone had their job to do. What was hers? To defeat Corypheus, yes. To do whatever was necessary to destroy his armies and erode his support network and see to it that he was as weak and alone as she could make him when they finally came face to face again. 

But after that? The Inquisition’s work would be spycraft; diplomacy; the building and maintenance of armies. And the job of the Inquisitor would be to form the face of the Inquisition, to build what had begun in a scattering of buildings and a field full of tents in Haven into a city-state, perched precariously on the borders of two unsettled nations who hated each other. The Inquisitor would need to be the kind of person who could talk to someone like Ren’s father in a language he understood and would respect.

In a moment of sudden and unusual clarity, Ren knew that that job was not for her. She was a fighter, and the Inquisition without Corypheus to oppose could not afford to be led by a fighter.

There was a tremendous lightness in her that came from that knowledge, a feeling as though a heavy burden had been lifted from her. She was sure of who Morvoren Trevelyan was now … and more importantly, of who she would never be. 

Bracing her arms on the balcony rail, she watched the movements in the courtyard. Of course, it couldn’t really be that simple. One did not just simply step down from such a lofty position. And she could only imagine what her advisors would say when she told them she wanted to leave the Inquisition in the lurch.

Maybe it would go better if she could present them with an alternative, someone who could lead the Inquisition into the new future so very much better than she could ever have done. Ren frowned down at the courtyard. If she were no longer the Inquisitor, who would be? In the long run, it wasn’t her call, she knew that, but this was her Inquisition, too; she had built it as much as anyone. Surely she had the right to some say, and surely it was her responsibility not to leave until someone could be found and trained to take her place.

And obviously not until Corypheus was dead, she reminded herself, looking across the sky for any sign of his dragon. She couldn’t imagine that would be much longer. She had taken everything she could from him; he had to be one seriously pissed-off darkspawn by now.

But since he hadn’t arrived yet, she had the future to consider, and the sooner she settled things, the better. 

In the courtyard, she saw Cassandra training. Cassandra would make the perfect Inquisitor; strong and capable, but also a princess, which did away with many of the problems that came with her complete lack of political skills. A warrior, someone the Chantry would approve of, not allied with either Ferelden or Orlais. Yes, perfect. Ren had always wondered why Cassandra hadn’t taken the job from the start.

She hurried down to the courtyard, wanting to catch the other woman before her training session was over.

As she approached, Cassandra put down her sword. “Inquisitor.”

“Cassandra.” They stood looking at each other for a moment. They’d never been exactly friends, but Ren hoped there was a mutual respect between them, at least. “I … had something I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Go ahead.”

“I was just wondering … when Corypheus has been defeated … have you given any thought to what you will do?”

Cassandra looked away, her cheeks pinkening faintly. “Yes. I must confess that I have. I know the Chantry is still considering the names that have been submitted, but … I have some hopes …”

“You’re hoping to be named Divine?” Ren asked in some surprise. She stayed out of any Chantry-related decisions, much to the disappointment of many in the Chantry who were looking to the “Herald of Andraste” for guidance in the selection of the new Divine. Skyhold’s current Revered Mother, Albertine, who had replaced Mother Giselle, had broached the topic several times, and Ren had made it very clear she didn’t intend to get involved. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Cassandra said. “To be embroiled in politics and have every cleric jealous of me for the rest of my life—it’s not exactly me. But, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, that kind of thing is not exactly you, either, and yet you have handled the role of Inquisitor far better than I would have imagined you could.” She left the “if you can do it, so can I” implied rather than stated.

“Thank you.”

Cassandra nodded in acknowledgement. “As for the Chantry … it needs to survive. Thedas needs it to survive. But to do so, it has to change. I can think of no one who has more energy to see such a change through than I.”

“That’s certainly true.” Ren chuckled, and was glad to see Cassandra smile, too.

“Also, I have never believed in asking another to do what you are unwilling to do yourself.”

“Unless you’re unsuited to the task,” Ren said, thinking about her own quest to find a new Inquisitor.

“You think I am unsuited?” There was hurt underneath the pique in Cassandra’s tone.

“No, no—I think you’d make an excellent Divine!” Ren hastened to assure her. “I was thinking more about the general purpose of the statement, not this specific instance.”

“Ah. I see.” 

“So you—would you like me to formally support your bid for the Sunburst Throne?” Ren asked. Leliana wouldn’t be happy about it, but the Inquisition would need Leliana more than it would Cassandra.

“Yes. I would appreciate that.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you.” Cassandra hesitated, as if she thought there might be more to say, then let it go.

Ren nodded at her crisply before leaving the Seeker to her training exercises. If Cassandra wasn’t going to be the next Inquisitor, Ren was going to have to go on to the second name that had come to mind when she gave the problem its due consideration.

The Quartermaster’s office was very close to the training area, so it was an easy step both literally and figuratively from Cassandra to Ser Morris. Initially Ren had been iffy about the young man, who had clearly been chosen more for his family connections, a complex web stretching across Thedas and back, than for any inherent ability anyone had seen in him—but he had taken on the role with gusto, had made it his own, and had performed every task required of him far better than anyone had expected. 

He was a skilled negotiator, which would make him a better fit for the glad-handing aspect of Inquisitorship than Ren had been, and he was related to half of Thedas, so that had to help as well. He could fight when it was required; Ren had seen him in the training ring. He wasn’t great, but he could hold his own. And the clandestine nature of much of the Inquisition’s supply needs meant that he had worked closely with Leliana as well.

Yes. Morris would be perfect; if only he would agree to do it. 

Ren paused in front of the door. She had intended to go in, to ask him what he thought … but if the advisors didn’t agree with her, that could prove painful to everyone involved. And, after all, it was going to be their Inquisition. It ought to be their decision, ultimately.

She turned around and headed toward the main keep. It would be time for the War Room meeting soon enough; she couldn’t wait to tell the advisors what she had decided, to make it real. What would she do afterward? Ren wondered idly. Where did her future lie, if not with the Inquisition?

With Ashkaari, that was definite. She knew that without even having to think about it; from the day they’d met, she’d felt right only when he was with her. But where? By an ocean; both of them hungered for the sound of the waves and the smell of the sea. 

Ren turned that over in her mind as she climbed the steps. She was vaguely aware of people moving out of her way as she walked, and she tried to respond to them with smiles and nods despite being lost in her own thoughts. She made her way through the main keep in a similar vein, not even bothering to look to see if her father was there.

When the others came into the War Room, she was already waiting for them. 

“Inquisitor!” Josephine said in some surprise. “I wanted to ask you how the visit with your father is going.”

Ren laughed. “About as well as might have been expected. He’s discovered an asset he never knew he had, and he came to capitalize on it.” She found Cullen’s eyes on her, thoughtful and concerned. “I told him I was no asset of his.”

She could see Josephine trying to find something supportive to say. Leliana remained quiet.

Ren continued, “But it made me think, about the future of the Inquisition. Because I’m aware that once Corypheus is dead, the tenor and the thrust of this institution will—must—change. And before you say so, Josephine,” she added, smiling at the Ambassador, “I know how poorly suited I am to dealing with my father and people like him day in and day out. So I’ve come to the only decision possible: When Corypheus is dead, I intend to step down as Inquisitor, and let the Inquisition be led by someone who will do the job better than I could.”

If she had expected shock, or dismay, or stammered pleas to change her mind, she would have been disappointed. Instead, all three relaxed visibly.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m glad you all agree. No need to say any more about it.”

Leliana nodded, her eyes bright with amusement. “You’re very wise, my friend. And very strong.”

“Strong?”

“I have met few people in my life who could turn away from power, especially such power as the leader of the Inquisition will possess once the Breach is closed and Corypheus is dead.”

“I’m just glad you have faith that I can do it.”

“We have had that faith from the beginning, Inquisitor,” Cullen said. “As you well know.”

“I do. And I appreciate it, more than I can say. You all took a big chance on me.”

“There is the matter of who will succeed you,” Josephine said worriedly.

“Well, I had given that some thought.” Ren looked at the three of them. “Obviously, this is your choice to make, but I’d like to give you my thoughts, if I may.”

“Of course!”

“Yes,” Josephine agreed. “Please.”

“I had initially thought of Cassandra, but she seems bent on becoming Divine, and …” Ren glanced at Leliana, feeling her cheeks heat. “I promised I would support her. I’m sorry, Leliana, you know I don’t care and wasn’t going to get involved, but … knowing that I intended to leave … The Inquisition can’t do without both of us.”

“No. No, it can’t.” The Spymaster looked down at her gloved hands, and Ren could practically feel her mourning for the lost chance, but then she looked up again, her blue eyes as bright as ever.

“Who else had you considered?” Cullen asked.

“Ser Morris.”

Josephine raised her eyes, interested, and Cullen and Leliana exchanged looks and nods. 

“He’s an excellent choice. Have you spoken to him?”

“No. I thought about it, but … I didn’t think it was appropriate without speaking with the three of you first.”

Leliana sighed. “Oh, Inquisitor, you have come such a long way from the beginning. A few more years and we might have had you … But you wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“No,” Ren agreed. “I wouldn’t have.”

“So it remains to ask what you will do, when you shake the dust of Skyhold off your feet.” Cullen smiled at her, and she remembered his promise of support.

“Well, I don’t intend to run off too fast. I’ll stay as long as you need me, to get my replacement up to speed, help out where I can. But … after that …” This was the part she was most nervous about, the part where she asked them for what she really wanted. “There’s a house, on the Storm Coast. I know we have the deed to the property, and I … well, I wondered …”

“Done,” Josephine said promptly. “And with our gratitude and admiration.”

“Oh.” Ren could feel her cheeks flame up. “Well, I …” She cleared her throat, uncomfortable with both the gratitude and the admiration. “I feel the same way, you know I do. What I would have done without all of you …”

“And the Iron Bull,” Leliana put in, her eyes twinkling. “Have you told him about this?”

“No. No, not yet, and I’d ask you—well, personally, but for the rest of the Inquisition, too, I have to think it’s best if this doesn’t go beyond this room until—until it’s time.”

“No, you’re quite right.” Josephine nodded.

“Although, perhaps someone might wish to approach Morris,” Cullen said. “Inquisitor?”

“You’re taking my suggestion? Don’t one of you want to talk to him?”

Leliana shrugged. “He is the best choice, by far. And who better to answer whatever questions he may have? Yes, I think it would be best if you talked to him.”

“All right.”

“In the meantime, do we know where Corypheus is?” Cullen turned expectantly to Leliana, who shook her head.

“We’ve had scouts searching for him everywhere I can think of, but … still no sign.”

Ren looked down at the Anchor in her palm, flexing her hand. “He’ll come. When he thinks we’re least prepared. He wants to make a statement, send a message.”

“We’ll send him one right back,” Cullen said grimly.

“I intend to.”

On that note, the meeting broke up. Ren left the others talking, and went straight to the Quartermaster’s office, wanting to get everything squared away. Something told her it wouldn’t be long before Corypheus came for her, and she wanted things settled.

Ashkaari was in the sparring ring with Cassandra and she stopped to watch for a moment, admiring the still-surprising grace of that massive body and the playfulness in his sparring. Strength and humor and intelligence and tenderness … the layers of him were dense and complex, and her heart swelled with the idea that he would be hers to explore for the rest of her life.

“He thinks he pulls you down, like a rock, and he wants to lift you up like a piece of thistledown.”

Ren glanced at Cole, raising her eyebrows. “You tell him any different and I’ll be very displeased.”

“But … it would help him to know.”

“No, it wouldn’t. He’d only argue with me and think he knew best. You let me tell him, and that’s final. Okay?”

Cole looked from her to the Iron Bull and back. “You’re right,” he said in some surprise. “It wouldn’t help.”

“Exactly. Cole?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell anyone else, either. Some things it’s important to keep secret.”

He shook his head. “It wouldn’t help anyone else.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” She smiled at Ashkaari when he glanced at her, and then left the sparring ring, Cole having disappeared to wherever it was he disappeared to.

The Quartermaster’s office was filled with people, as usual, all of whom got immediately to their feet as soon as Ren walked in. One more thing she looked forward to putting behind her with the title. “Ser Morris,” she said crisply. “This is unacceptable. I must speak with you immediately.”

He blanched, and the people in the room began to leave, but Ren waved her hand at them.

“The rest of you stay. Ser Morris will come with me and explain how this could have occurred.”

He hurried at her heels, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to avoid laughing. They reached the battlements, and Ren moved around them until she was certain she could see anyone who might be listening. Only then did she allow herself to let the smile show.

“Inquisitor?” Morris was frowning at her, and she laughed outright.

“I’m sorry, Morris. I wanted to speak with you alone, and I thought if I seemed displeased it would … Well, I have something momentous to talk to you about.”

“Is this— Did Dorian …” Morris stammered, blushing.

“No. No, nothing to do with Dorian. Why?”

“I couldn’t think what else you might want to talk to me about.”

“Morris … What is your first name, anyway?”

“Robert.”

“Robert, then.”

“Oh, Maker. If we’re using first names, I’ve stepped in it for sure.”

Ren laughed again. “No, not at all. Or, yes, you really have. It’s up to you.”

“Inquisitor, you’ve lost me.”

“That’s just it …” Ren took a deep breath, deciding to get it all out. “When Corypheus is dead, the Inquisition may be looking for a new Inquisitor, and … it looks like the unanimous vote is to give the job to you.”

He would have to work on how open his face was, she thought, watching the cascade of emotions across it, wondering which would come out on top. At last, he said, “Please don’t talk like that. You’ve battled so many creatures, I’m sure that you—“

“Oh, that’s not my worry. No, I think there’s a good chance I can beat Corypheus and come out of it in one piece.” That was overstating the case, but good enough for the moment. “But I’m not the right person to take the Inquisition into its next stage, and I think you are.”

She explained to him her thinking, and that of the advisors. 

“Well, that’s—to say it wasn’t what I was expecting would be—Maker.”

“Exactly.”

“I …” He paused for a moment, then nodded firmly. “I think I would like—“

And then the Anchor in Ren’s hand flared up, green and bright, between them, and she cried out, doubling over in pain. At the same time, the sky far from them, above the familiar site of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, split open and took on the green glow they had all been so glad to see the last of.

“Inquisitor?” Robert asked.

“Get the Commander. And then the others.” She straightened up, gritting her teeth against the fiery burn of the Anchor. “I guess Corypheus has made his statement.”

Ren hurried down the stairs from the battlements, running into Morrigan on the way. The mage seemed unperturbed; the citizens of Skyhold were rushing this way and that, all having seen the Breach reopen itself, but Morrigan simply stood, waiting, a faint smile playing across her face.

“Are you ready?” Ren asked her sharply.

“I am. I can match Corypheus’s dragon. The question is, are you ready, Inquisitor? You either close the Breach once more, or it swallows the world.”

“That is not going to happen.”

“Fine words. I wish you luck with them.”

“Just be there when I need you.”

“Indeed.”

Ren rushed off, heading for her quarters. Cullen was waiting for her at the top of the stairs to the main keep. “Inquisitor, the army stands ready for you.”

“No time, Cullen. I’ll take my companions, but the army would be too slow, and Corypheus knows it.” She looked over her shoulder at the Breach. “This is about me now, me and his Anchor.” She looked at Cullen, reaching for his hand. “You and his army have done your work admirably, stripped him of everything that could have aided him. The rest of it is up to me.”

“Maker go with you … Ren.”

She flashed him a smile, acknowledging the momentary lack of formality, then was off again. People tried to stop her on her way through the keep, to ask her questions and express concerns, but she put them off as well as she could.

Until she reached the door, where her father stood waiting, his spare figure a formidable obstacle. 

“You … are going to go to fight this creature, this Corypheus?” he asked.

Ren nodded.

“And—can you?”

“Fight him? Yes. Can I win?” She pressed her lips together to keep her fear from showing on her face. “I have to. There’s no other choice.”

He looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “May the Maker watch over you,” he said at last.

“Thank you.” Ren pushed past him, tucking the odd encounter away to think about later. For now, there were more important things ahead.

Ashkaari was already there, armoring up, and he turned without a word to help her get her own armor on. There was no banter about the oddity of him helping her put her clothes on for a change; they didn’t exchange promises or words of love. 

At last, when they were ready to go, he put his big hand on her shining hair, and they stood for a long moment looking at one another. And then they turned and left together.


	56. There Are No Gods

The trip to Haven took longer than Ren had hoped it would. The horses had to be rested and fed; they couldn’t move at the pace she wanted to keep up for as long as she needed them to. 

Everyone was tense. Even Varric kept the jokes to a minimum. And Solas was particularly edgy, unable to sit, unable to eat. He took some tea when they stopped for a hasty camp and a nap while the horses rested, but otherwise he spent his time pacing back and forth, watching the sky.

Ren would have preferred to keep going on foot, but the others were right; she had to face Corypheus as well-rested and well-fed as she could. Ashkaari didn’t say much, but he stayed by her side, and forcibly put food in her hand when she would have waved it away.

Looking around at her companions as they urged their horses down the mountain, she wondered what they would do once this was over. Such very different people, brought together by this ancient magister and the tear he had made in the sky. She looked at Hawke, his usual grin nowhere in sight, and wondered if this was how he had felt when he faced down Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino, or during his duel with the Arishok. Was this what the Hero of Ferelden had felt when she faced the Archdemon? Both sets of those companions had scattered to the far corners of Thedas. Hers no doubt would do so as well; and she would miss them all.

But that was the way of the world. What they did afterward would depend on what happened today … and Ren suspected she was interested in her companions’ thoughts mostly to mask from herself the fact that she had no plan. Corypheus waited; no doubt he had something up his sleeve.

She looked down at her hand, the Anchor sparking green. That was what she had up her sleeve; would it be enough? In the end, perhaps it was really all she had to fight with. She would have to make it count, somehow. 

As they reached the edges of Haven, there were murmurs of dismay. The group had been fairly stoic, mostly locked in their own thoughts, on the way down … but Haven, which had been their home, however briefly, was blasted almost completely away. There were no vestiges left of the camp they had made, of the town it had been before that. The only consolation to Ren, at least, was that it was no longer possible to tell where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had stood. The new rubble had overwhelmed the old and erased those scars.

She wondered how long Corypheus would make them wait.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull couldn’t decide if he was glad the moment had come, to break the suspense, or if he wished Corypheus had waited … waited indefinitely. He had all kinds of confidence in his kadan, but this darkspawn asshole was the biggest thing they had ever fought together; and, unlike the dragons, was pure evil. If they lost there wouldn’t be another day to fight, so there was no challenge—winning was a necessity.

It reminded him of Seheron, where the stakes had been high every day. He had lost himself in the anger, in the need to fight, in the killing and the dying. He didn’t want to do that again. Maybe it made him less of a Qunari, but all he really wanted was to go back to Skyhold and make love to his _kadan_ and tell stories and go out to fight things that needed killing but weren’t out to destroy the world.

And no matter how today ended, that was over. If they didn’t make it—he wasn’t going to think about that. If they did make it, then he and the Chargers would be leaving, and he would watch his _kadan_ become everything she was meant to be from afar. He would take pride in knowing he had had a hand in making her what she eventually became, but it would never be the same. 

What was left in him that was still Qunari was at peace with that decision; it was the right one. But what was in him that wasn’t Qunari any longer … It would be a long time before he took another woman to bed and didn’t see flashes of red hair, didn’t close his eye and imagine it was her.

He shook himself, reminding himself sternly that all of that was tomorrow’s problem. For today, they still had some Vint ass to kick. He caught Ren looking at him, and he reached for her, his hand closing on her shoulder reassuringly. 

The other companions would go their separate ways, he was sure … but to his surprise, of them all, the one he would miss most was Cole. The spirit-boy was weird as shit, but somehow he had come to matter to the Iron Bull, matter the way Krem did, or Morvoren. 

As he thought it, Cole looked up at him under that straggly yellow hair that was always in his face, and smiled, and damned if the Iron Bull didn’t smile back, sure that the kid could read his thoughts, or his feelings, whichever.

They were in Haven now, or what had been Haven once … and there in front of them was the asshole who had started all this. If Corypheus had never tried to take over the world, the Iron Bull would never have met the redhead who had become his heart—did that mean he had to be grateful to this thing while he killed it? 

At his side, Ren dismounted, clenching her hand around the Anchor as she moved forward toward the giant darkspawn, and the rest of them followed suit.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren stood firm in front of Corypheus. They looked at each other long and hard before he lifted his arms upward. He was looking past her now, to her companions.

“Bow before your new god and be spared,” he said to them.

“Shite,” Sera whispered.

The Iron Bull bellowed, “No fucking way!”

“That is not going to happen,” Cassandra said firmly. She stood at Ren’s side, stalwart as always, and gave Ren a long look and a firm nod.

Lucas Hawke didn’t speak, but he was there, solid and dependable and experienced, and Ren knew he would see this through.

It was good to have them with her, because she could stand here firm and tall, but her knees were shaking so that she wasn’t certain she could have taken a step, and her palms were so sweaty she was sure any minute now she would drop her daggers.

She reminded herself that all these people were standing here because they believed in her; visions flitted through her mind of all the people she had met on her journeys as Inquisitor, men and women and children, elves and dwarves and Qunari and humans—all of them counting on her.

Baring her teeth, she took the step, glad that her legs held. “It ends here, Corypheus.”

He smiled at her, if his twisted mouth could be said to do such a thing. “And so it shall.” Raising his arms, he called out words in an ancient tongue, and around them demons rose, groaning and shrieking. 

Ren’s companions immediately got to work, magic flashing and arrows flying and swords ringing, but she stood still, as if in the eye of a storm, her eyes on Corypheus. She took another step.

His warped mouth curled in disgust as he watched her move toward him. “You have been most successful in foiling my plans, but let us not forget what you are. A thief, in the wrong place at the wrong time. An interloper. A gnat.”

She remembered that day at the Temple, her boredom, her restless hunt for something to steal just to have something interesting to do, walking in on Corypheus’s ritual. She certainly had gained something interesting to do out of that bored stroll. “I am a thief; I’ve stolen every one of your plans,” she said, her voice ringing off the stones. “I’m the gnat buzzing at your side keeping you from concentrating on your goal. And now, I’m the dagger that’s going to kill you, once and for all.”

“Very well. We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood.”

“There are no gods!” 

Corypheus looked at her for a long, long moment, for the first time as though he was truly seeing her, as if there was a real intelligence behind that tainted, ruined face, and Ren looked back at him, fearless, here at the end. What could he do, kill her? She was going to die someday, anyway. And if he killed her, there was an entire Inquisition behind her that would rise up to see to it that her work had not been in vain.

Then, behind him, the dragon crawled across a pile of rocks, its cruel eyes hungry as they looked down at Ren. But even as it leapt, another dragon came screaming out of nowhere, and the two dragons flew off into the sky, rolling and snarling and scratching and beating at each other with their wings.

“Morrigan,” Ren whispered. She had never been entirely certain of the mage, but she was here right now, when it counted.

And Corypheus was royally pissed, which was a good thing, too. “You dare!” he cried. He whirled around and disappeared through a hole in the rocks.

The demons were still coming; Ren would need to leave some of her people behind. “Bull,” she shouted. “Dorian!” She plucked at Cole’s sleeve, since he was the closest to her, and he nodded. 

Cassandra appeared next to her, shouting in a moment between demons. “Go, Inquisitor! We have this!”

Ren nodded her appreciation, glad she was leaving the others in such good hands. With Dorian and Cole and the Iron Bull at her heels, she ran after Corypheus.

They caught up to him farther up in the rocks, Dorian’s magic surrounding him in a cage of crackling lightning and stunning him momentarily. Ren wished she had asked Hawke, or Varric, for more details about how they had killed him … except that it hadn’t worked. She was going to have to come up with her own way.

The Iron Bull was roaring, his great axe hacking away at the shield that surrounded Corypheus. Cole was having better luck, able to slip through. Perhaps the shield called on power from the Fade, Ren thought. Holding up her marked hand, she let the power blast from it, as though she were closing a rift, and suddenly Corypheus shrieked in pain as the Iron Bull landed a blow.

“Yeah! Take that, you asshole!” shouted the Iron Bull, just before Corypheus sent him skidding backward across the stones.

Ren attacked the magister with her daggers, as Cole was doing on the other side, but Corypheus was ignoring them for the moment, as though they were the gnats he had called them. With his height, and the way he hovered above the ground, it was hard to get a good blow in, and he kept moving, shifting. 

From the corner of her eye, Ren saw the Iron Bull try to get up and fall back. His bellow of frustration echoed across the space between them, and Corypheus laughed. “You will all fall as a warning to those who oppose my divine will!”

A stab of magic shot from his hands, tracing an arc, and Dorian was sent sprawling on his stomach. The mage got up, scrambling toward the Iron Bull, but Corypheus blasted him again, then turned to strike at Cole. The spirit-boy half-merged with the Fade, but he still took a blow to the head that knocked him off his feet, and he lay there, unmoving.

Ren swallowed hard against her fear for her companions. She should never have brought them. This was between her and Corypheus, and she should never have allowed the others to risk their lives.

As Corypheus began to turn toward her, she readied her daggers, but at that moment the two dragons came hurtling across the battleground, screaming. Ren and Corypheus both stopped to watch, the sight of the two enormous creatures grappling with one another high above their heads truly awesome. 

Ren couldn’t tell for certain which dragon was which, they were moving so fast and flying so high and falling so hard, only to catch themselves with great beats of their wings. Then one climbed higher and higher and higher, until it was almost inside the Breach, before turning and hurtling straight down at the other one, meeting it as it rose, the two bodies coming together with a thud like a roll of thunder. 

They tumbled together, both shrieking in pain, and then one flew off and the other fell to the ground, ceasing to be a dragon and becoming Morrigan. The witch lifted herself on her arms and then collapsed, blood flowing from her nose.

Ren had no time to worry about the mage’s safety, or anyone’s, because suddenly she was faced with Corypheus’s dragon. It was on the ground, one leg dangling limply, but it was far from dead.

Dorian was back on his feet, attacking the dragon with crackles of energy. Corypheus had run, again, over the rocks, farther up the mountain. Ren wanted to follow him, but Dorian couldn’t handle the dragon on his own. Cole and Morrigan were motionless, and the Iron Bull was still trying to rise and couldn’t seem to get on his feet. Something wrong with his leg, it appeared, but there was no time to stop. 

She ran for the dragon, daggers out, avoiding the weak beat of a wing as she rolled under it, searching for any softness in the underbelly. She found it just where the leg joined the body, stabbing deep with both blades, and the dragon screamed and collapsed on its side. Yanking the daggers out of its body, Ren moved to the neck, finding where the great pulse beat, and she buried a dagger as far as it would go.

She removed it, a spray of the blood showering her. She turned to Dorian, who was panting, leaning over with his hands braced on his knees. “I have to go after Corypheus. You stay here, see if you can help them … can you?”

He nodded. “I have to … have to work my energy … back up again.”

“Dorian!” bellowed the Iron Bull. “Heal me! Let me go with the boss!”

“No.” Ren turned to him, meeting his eye. “Not even if he could.” The mage was ignoring the Qunari anyway, kneeling next to Cole, his fingers searching for the wound that had knocked the spirit-boy unconscious. “I have to go, kadan. This is mine to do; he’ll use you against me if I bring you.” She stepped backward, slowly, wanting to say … something. Everything. Tell him what he had meant to her. But he knew—and staying longer would only make it worse, give Corypheus a greater chance to finish what he’d started. “I have to go,” she whispered, blinking back tears, and she turned and ran.

His voice followed her. “ _KADAN_!”

She climbed the rocks, moving as fast as she could, not knowing what lay ahead of her, wishing she could float the way Corypheus had. 

At last she came out on top of the mountain. Corypheus stood before her, the orb she remembered so clearly now raised high above his head. He looked at her, nodding, as though he had been waiting for her.

“Let it end here,” he said. “Let the skies boil. Let the world be rent asunder.”

“No!”

Corypheus and the orb were both glowing, crackling with red energy, and Ren cowered away from it, the heat coming from him nearly unbearable. He sent a stab of that energy at her, which she rolled away from at the last second.

“I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages …” He was wrestling with the orb now, shaking with the energy it contained. “Dumat!” he called. “Ancient ones! I beseech you!”

Ren got to her feet, her mark hissing and singing in her palm. She looked at it for a moment, then held it out toward him, letting the energy of the mark call to the orb that had created it. With all her being, she pulled the orb toward her, wondering in some far-off part of her mind if this was what magic felt like.

Corypheus lifted the orb again. “If you exist,” he called to the sky, “if you ever truly existed—aid me now!”

But green energy was battling the red, and suddenly the orb jerked from his hands, and Ren found it in hers. Corypheus fell to his knees, his eyes empty and his face slack, staring at her. Ren looked at the orb for a moment, and suddenly she knew what to do. With all her might, with all the power of the Anchor, she sent it up into the sky, into the Breach. With a flash and a crack, the orb entered the Breach and the clouds and the green energy folded in and in and in upon each other until they were gone and the skies were clear again. 

The orb fell unheeded to the ground as Ren stepped toward the magister.

“I told you,” she said, “there are no gods.” He stared at her still, as though the orb had taken from him some essential vitality. “You wanted into the Fade?” The Anchor was crackling in her hand, and she placed her open palm against Corypheus’s forehead, the energy growing and growing until it surrounded them both. “Go there!” And she pushed with all her might, opening a rift that split the former magister in two. There was a dull boom that rolled through her, her entire body shuddering with it, and everything went black.

Ren woke on a beach, the water lapping over her feet, tickling her bare toes. Groaning, she rolled over and got to her feet. The sky was an odd green color; was there a storm rolling in? If it stormed, she’d never get back up the cliffs in time for the evening meal. Not that anyone much cared if she was there, but she’d get in trouble for missing it, anyway, just for the form’s sake.

“Morvoren!”

The voice floated down to her on the wind. She knew that voice; it was familiar. It made her smile. Was it her mother? Impatiently, she shook her head. She hadn’t heard her mother’s voice in—well, she couldn’t even remember her mother’s voice.

It came again. “ _Kadan_! _Kadan_ , please.”

What was that word? She knew it, too. It made her happy, her heart fluttering. Somewhere at the top of that cliff … She put her feet to the stones and started up, the moves coming back to her slowly, as though it had been a long time since she had climbed. Which was silly, because it had been … yesterday? No, that really didn’t sound right.

As she moved up the cliff, she could hear the voice again, as if its owner was arguing with someone. “You fucking Vint, let me go. I am going in there after her, and that’s—damn it, Dorian!”

A boy was climbing next to her now, a boy she thought she knew, although no one had ever climbed the cliff with her before, and he hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“You have to hurry,” he said solemnly to her.

Well, what did he think she was doing? But he was gone again, leaving her climbing alone.

“ _Kadan_!” the first voice called again, an edge of desperation to it now. 

Ren reached the top, sprawling across the ground. It wasn’t right, though. Instead of the manor house in the distance, the familiar green fields, there were rocks and twisted, dead trees, and ahead of her something glowing, like a doorway in the middle of the path. Her hand itched and burned, and she raised it, frowning at it, seeing the same glow reflected in her palm.

The boy was standing in the doorway. “Hurry! Hurry!”

And she was hurrying, her feet taking her toward the door while she struggled to call the boy’s name to mind. Cole. Yes. And … “ _Kadan_ ,” she whispered, the memories flooding back, her hand lifting to touch the dragon’s tooth at her throat even as she ran. “I’m coming, Ashkaari!”

She burst through the rift, into the waiting arms of her love, which folded around her, holding her close, while he murmured broken sentences and half-formed threats about what he would do to her if she ever went into the Fade, or a fight, without him again, and hoarse declarations of love.

Ren clung to him for a moment, but the rift still glowed behind her, Cole and Dorian watching it tensely, and she disentangled herself from the Iron Bull and used the mark to close the rift again.

“Let me see all of you,” she said when it was closed. “Cole, you’re all right?” He nodded. “And Ashkaari, all healed?”

“Finally. Fucking Vint,” he grumbled, glaring at Dorian.

“Orders, you know,” Dorian said, managing a weary smile.

“Thank you.” Ren reached out and embraced the mage.

Over his shoulder, she saw someone in the shadows, her eyes briefly meeting those of Solas. Letting go of Dorian, she said to him, “Can you take these two down the mountain, tell everyone we’re okay?”

The Iron Bull looked as though he were about to argue, and she put her hand on his arm. “This one I have to do, kadan. I’ll be right behind you.” She glanced down at the shattered remnants of the orb at her feet and back up at him, raising her eyebrows, hoping he had also seen Solas.

He must have, because he agreed, but not before he wove his fingers through her hair and bent to kiss her, long and deep and searching, satisfying himself that she was really alive and all right.

Then he and the other two turned and left, and Solas came slowly out from behind the rocks. He walked toward her without speaking, until his toes were nearly touching one of the fragments of the orb, and stood staring down at it, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Corypheus is dead. That’s the important thing. Isn’t it?” But she could see that to Solas, it wasn’t. Not at all.

“So much has been lost.”

“What is it, Solas? What aren’t you telling me?”

He shook his head sorrowfully. “It was not supposed to happen this way.”

“No,” Ren agreed. “It certainly wasn’t Corypheus’s plan.”

Solas turned his face away from her, a spasm of pain crossing it. Mastering himself with a visible effort, he looked up at her again. “No matter what comes, I want you to know you shall always have my respect.”

“And you have mine. We owe you so much—Skyhold, and … and my mark …” He was leaving, she could see that in his defeated posture. “You always have a home with the Inquisition.”

“Thank you.”

And he was gone.


	57. Victory

Ren climbed down the mountain, finding her companions waiting for her. They were scarred, dirtied, bloodied, but everyone was on their feet. Even Morrigan, although the witch was limping just a bit. Cassandra came forward. “Inquisitor. It’s over?”

“It’s over. Corypheus is … scattered bits of flesh, in and out of the Fade.”

They cheered her for that, and she smiled, feeling a wave of weariness wash over her. 

“Victorious,” Morrigan mused. “What a novel concept.”

“Thanks to you,” Ren told her. “If you hadn’t worn out the dragon, we couldn’t have killed it, and then we couldn’t have killed Corypheus.”

“The voices tell me all is not necessarily settled.”

Ren sighed. “When is it ever? Is anyone coming to get me right now?”

“I do not believe so.”

“Then I’ll worry about it when it comes.”

Morrigan nodded crisply. “I have places to go.”

“Of course.”

“It has been my privilege, Inquisitor.”

“You go with my thanks. The Inquisition owes you a debt,” Ren said. She watched the witch limp away into the shadows, where no doubt she would heal herself and turn herself into something that flew. It was likely that this was the last Ren would ever see of Morrigan, which, frankly, was fine with her.

A strong pair of hands closeed on her shoulders and turned her around, and she looked up into the grey eye of her lover. “Look at you, _kadan_. All not-dead.”

“You weren’t worried, were you?”

“Not for a second.”

“The Ben-Hassrath would despair of you. You’re turning into an absolutely terrible liar. I’m not sure whether I should be proud or worried.” She smiled at him, and he returned the smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eye.

“Me, neither.”

Sera appeared, her blonde head peeking around the Iron Bull’s arm. “Rip in the sky all closey-closed. Good, right? No more weird old guys goin’ around trying to open it up?” She chuckled weakly.

“No more weird old guys. At least, not that I know of.” Ren sighed. “Can we go home now?”

At that, they cheered her again.

She found Lucas Hawke hanging back, matching his horse’s pace to that of hers. His usual smile was missing, and he looked at her sideways. “You’re sure he’s dead?”

Ren sighed. “He’s in pieces in the Fade. If he’s not dead, at least it will take him a long time to put himself back together.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t kill him the first time.”

“Hey. Don’t talk like that. The key word there is ‘couldn’t’. I think I only managed because of this.” She held up her hand with the Anchor in it, looking at the sparkling green of it with interest. “Which appears to be a permanent prize. I wonder what else it might be good for?”

Lucas looked at it, too, and shook his head. “If I were you, I’d file that under ‘be careful what you wish for’ and not try too hard to find out.”

“You’re probably right.” Ren clenched her hand again, the green glow disappearing. She was glad to have kept it, though. The Anchor seemed like part of her now. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” He looked off into the distance and sighed, then said again, more firmly, “Yeah.”

“Your pirate queen will be happy to have you back.”

Now his grin flashed out. “I’m sure she’d like to meet you, too.”

“Someday.” Ren wanted to suggest a rendezvous at the Storm Coast, but the Iron Bull was just ahead of her, and his ears were sharp. 

“Got it. We’ll keep the Antivan brandy ready for you.”

Ren laughed. “You do that.”

Lucas spurred his horse ahead and caught up with Varric, and the Iron Bull dropped back to ride next to Ren. He didn’t speak, but he reached out a hand toward her, and she put hers inside it, and they rode like that for a long time.

The ride back to Skyhold was slower than the ride down had been, but still there was a pressure to get back that everyone seemed to feel. Everyone except the Iron Bull. Riding next to Ren, catching her when she fell asleep on her horse, holding her up, all he wanted was to stop, and camp, and just lie there and hold her for … as long as possible. Every step back to Skyhold took him a step closer to having to leave her.

But at the same time, he couldn’t help feeling a deep, satisfying pride in her. She had done what no one else could. She had taken the reins of the Inquisition, she had brought it together and kept it that way, she had built this ragtag bundle of weirdos into a force that had faced down an ancient magister … and then she had taken the magister out all by herself. 

She was a pretty fucking amazing woman, his _kadan_. So whatever there was left to come, he was determined that they were going to celebrate their brains out.

But they had to get there first. He caught her shoulder again and set her straight back up on the horse. She stirred and looked up at him, blinking her blue eyes at him sleepily.

“Are we there yet?”

“Not quite.”

“Too bad.”  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren was still weary once they made it back to Skyhold, despite having stopped a few times on the way to rest and eat. She had napped in the Iron Bull’s arms, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek, hearing his heart beating steadily, and neither of them had wanted to separate when it was time to get back on the road. If it were up to her, she would have taken him straight off to the Storm Coast, and kept him there for a month. Or two.

But there would be time for that later. Corypheus was dead, and soon she would be free to be whoever she wanted to be.

Whatever waited for her at Skyhold, she was ready for it.

Or so she thought, until the gates opened and she saw what appeared to be the entire Inquisition lined up to cheer for her. Even though she was proud of what she had done, she wasn’t sure she was ready to be under everyone’s eye quite this way.

She looked up at the eye that mattered, finding it shining down on her. He gave her a little shove. “Go on, _kadan_. You’ve earned this. And—if you haven’t, they have.”

“Yes. Yes, they have.”

With a deep breath, she turned and smiled at the line of her people, taking the first step, and then the second. And shortly she felt the cheering buoy her up like the sea beneath her, carrying her forward on a wave of applause, up the steps to where her advisors waited.

They bowed before her, while she shook her head, blinking back the tears that sprang to her eyes. “Not to me,” she said. “This is your victory, as much as it is mine. Possibly more.”

Cullen stepped forward, reaching out a hand, taking hers and shaking it. Then, as if he thought better of it, he pulled her close and hugged her. “This is your victory,” he said, “and don’t ever forget it.”

She smiled, then turned and looked down at her people, raising the hand with the Anchor in it high above her head. Below her, she saw the Iron Bull, smiling up at her. He was proud of her; she knew it. No one who loved her had ever been proud of her before, not that she knew of.

Which made her wonder if her father was still in residence. No doubt if he was, he would make his presence known eventually. For the moment, he wasn’t her problem.

Josephine stepped close to her shoulder, whispering, “There is a little celebration being planned for tomorrow night, Inquisitor. Perhaps you could announce it.”

“My pleasure.” Raising her voice, Ren called out, “Inquisition! Corypheus is dead! The Breach is sealed!”

They cheered and applauded and whistled, and she let them go on to their heart’s content.

When there was enough quiet to be heard, she spoke again. “And what do we do when we win? We celebrate!”

Louder screams and cheers.

“Tomorrow night. We feast, we dance, we sing …”

Below her a familiar deep voice called, “We _drink_!”

In the ensuing laughter, she grinned. “We drink!” A wave of weariness swept her again, and she swayed. Cullen caught her with a hand on her elbow.

“But in the meantime,” he called out, “the Inquisitor needs her rest.”

There was more applause to that one, and slowly the people began to disperse. Ren smiled at Cullen. “Thanks.”

“I’ll want to hear all about it.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

She made her way slowly up the steps, finding that Leliana was keeping pace with her. “I can’t help but notice that you came back with one less companion than you left with.”

“It was an elven orb,” Ren said. “It broke in the end. Solas … he knew about it, somehow, and when it broke …” She searched for the words. “When it broke, so did he. I think he’s gone.”

“Do you want me to look for him?”

“I have the idea that if he wants us to see him again, it will be on his terms.”

“I see.” Leliana studied her. “I will put out some feelers, just to be on the safe side.”

“Probably for the best.” Ren yawned widely. “I’m sorry.”

“No need. You know, every noble in southern Thedas is clamoring to meet you.”

Ren gave an exaggerated shudder. “The fighting’s over.”

“It is. But what comes next will be complicated. You know that.”

“I do. Have you … Is everything set?”

Leliana smiled. “Yes. We will talk tomorrow in the War Room. All of us. In the meantime … I believe you have earned yourself a rest.”

“Yes, I think so.” Ren covered another yawn. Farther down the room, on the way to her door, she spied her father. And that was one conversation she was not going to be having right now. “Leliana, would you mind …”

The spymaster followed her gaze and smiled. “Of course, Inquisitor. My pleasure.”

A familiar large body came up behind Ren, familiar warm hands settling on her hips. “Some reason we aren’t going to bed?”

“Yeah. That one.” She tipped her chin toward her father and Leliana. The spymaster was using her most charming smile, and slowly she led Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick off toward the gardens.

“I don’t get to meet him? I was looking forward to meeting your father.”

She would be surprised if they hadn’t already met, but that wasn’t a conversation she was ready to have right now. “You were not.”

“Actually, I kind of was. But not right now. Right now,” he bent his head, whispering softly in her ear, “I want you all to myself.”

“That sounds nice. Just sleep, though, right? Because … as it turns out, killing an ancient magister darkspawn? Pretty exhausting.”

“As long as it’s together.”

“Absolutely.”

He propelled her slowly through the room toward the door. Once it had closed behind them, he lifted her in his arms. Her head fell against his shoulder, the silky hair tickling his skin, and he rested his cheek against it.

When he reached their quarters, she was deeply asleep. She didn’t even wake as he undressed her and laid her in the bed, tucking the covers around her. He sat on the side of the bed for a long time, trailing his fingers across her cheek and brushing her hair back over her ear and watching her face, before eventually undressing and slipping beneath the covers next to her.

When he woke, the sun was high outside, and downstairs he could hear the sounds of Skyhold preparing for a party. Next to him, Ren slept, curled close against him. 

Yesterday, she had killed a thousand-year-old darkspawn. And a dragon. And, if you left out that he had been incapacitated and unable to help her, both of those things were pretty damned sexy.

His hand slid over the silky soft skin of her back, nearly to the curve of her gorgeous ass, and then stopped. He was torn, wanting to let her sleep as long as he could, but also wanting her. He was already stirring under the covers, the sight of her there next to him all he needed to get aroused.

“Hey,” he said at last. “Hey, _kadan_.”

Ren stirred, shifting under the covers, rubbing her face against his side, before lifting her head to look at him. She blinked. “Hey.” Then she frowned. “You need something?”

The Iron Bull nodded. “Damn right I do.” He let his hand move those few inches further to cup her ass.

“Ah.” A slow, sleepy grin crossed her face. “Before breakfast?”

“Maybe after, too. Maybe after lunch. Or maybe I’ll just eat my lunch off of you.”

“My. Kill a little darkspawn and everyone wants a piece.”

He growled, pulling her on top of him. “But I’m the only one who gets one.”

“Did I say you—“ 

The sentence was cut off by his hand in her hair, pulling her mouth down to him, and his hungry kiss. It went on and on, arms winding around each other, bodies rubbing together, Ren straddling him to get closer to the heat and hardness of him.

The Iron Bull lifted his hips, pressing against her. “Fuck me, ataashi.”

“Maker, yes.” She ground herself back and forth on him, her body heating until she couldn’t stand it any longer, and then she sank down on his cock, throwing her head back at the sensation. His big hands found her breasts, cupping the heavy mounds, thumbs flicking over her nipples, making her cry out. She took one of his hands in hers and drew it down her body as she moved on him, until his fingers were where she most needed to feel them.

“Yes, Ashkaari, there, yes, please,” she whispered over and over again, grinding against his fingers with each downstroke, her eyes closing as the pleasure rushed through her.

When she had come down from it, he flipped her over, spreading her out in front of him, her wrists caught above her head in one hand while the other roamed her body, stoking the fires in her all over again. 

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, burying himself inside her again, trying to hold back. “Ah, _kadan_.”

“Yes.” Her legs lifted, her knees drawing toward her chest to give him a better angle. 

She brought his face down to hers and kissed him, and he was lost, his body moving practically of its own volition.

“Come with me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please.”

Ren nodded, beyond speech, too close to form words, and then she clutched him tightly, crying out in his ear, and he buried his face against her neck and shuddered against her.

They lay like that together for a long time, just holding each other.

“Damn. That just keeps getting better and better.”

Ren smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?”

The Iron Bull drew away from her, wrapping the sheet around his waist. “ _Kadan_ , I—“

“Ashkaari.” There was a warning note in her voice, and he turned to look at her. “If this is about you and the Chargers … I’m going to need a couple of days. All right?”

“You can’t just push it away. I’m not gonna change my mind.”

“I know that,” she said testily. “Look. I’m sure Josephine’s going to want me to give some kind of speech, to tell everyone what happened, assure them Corypheus is gone for good … etc.” 

There was something in her hesitance, something in her eyes, that made him suspicious. “What do you have up your sleeve?”

“A big green glowy thing, but that’s pretty much it. Actually, right now I don’t even have sleeves. All I want is a couple of days to get past what just happened before I have to—“ She cut the words off, looking away for a moment, before looking back at him. “Is that really so much to ask?”

He didn’t want to tell her that what he was really afraid of was that he wouldn’t have the strength to leave if he waited too long … but that was his problem, not hers. “No,” he said at last, leaning over to kiss her forehead, his hand curving around the back of her neck. “No, it isn’t.”

“Good.” Ren got out of bed, stretching, and he admired the grace of her muscular body. “Leliana said something about the War Room. I should go find them.”

“Probably. Hey,” he said, a sudden thought striking him.

“What?”

“What happened to Solas?”

“Corypheus’s orb broke, and Solas—Solas kind of went to pieces, too.” Ren frowned. “I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him.”

“Probably not. Leliana looking for him?”

“Sort of.”

“Maybe I’ll keep an eye out, too.”

“I bet neither of you will find him.”

“Might be useful to know where he isn’t, though.”

“Probably.” Ren gathered up her clothes and started getting dressed. “I’m off for breakfast and probably a lot of meetings … and a lot of glad-handing.” She sighed. “Lucky me.”

“You’ll do great,” he called after her as she headed down the stairs. She would, too. The girl he had met so long ago was a fucking awesome woman now, and she was going to knock the world on its ear. He lay back on the bed, very pleased with the work he had done.


	58. Celebrating

Leliana was waiting outside Josephine’s office, with a fairly nervous-looking Robert Morris. “Ah, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, smiling. “Shall we? Quartermaster Morris is coming along to give a report to Josephine on tonight’s party.”

“I hope everything is ready?” Ren asked him.

“Ready as it will ever be,” he said.

“That’s the spirit.” 

Cullen and Josephine were in the War Room already. “Inquisitor!” Cullen said.

“How about you all get used to calling me Ren?”

Josephine smiled. “That might take some doing.”

“You’ll get there. So, I imagine you’re going to want me to give a speech tomorrow?”

The Ambassador’s eyebrows flew up. “Why, yes.”

“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” Ren grinned. “I can’t wait.”

“You seem lighter, Inq—Ren.” Cullen studied her carefully. “Happier.”

“It’s part Corypheus, and part our friend here.” Ren looked at Morris. “And you’re all right with this?”

“I … am. Yes. It’s a big job, but—I’ve been doing a big job, and … I think I can do this one.”

“Good. I’ll stay on as long as you need me … well, for a while, anyway,” Ren amended. “To make the transition easier.”

“I do appreciate that,” Morris said fervently. 

“Shall we get down to the details? And perhaps the In—Ren here will tell us a bit about Corypheus and how that all went.” Leliana smiled at her. “I admit to being a bit curious.”

Ren told the story, as plainly as she could manage in the midst of all their questions, then they worked for a while on the details of the transition. Eventually Ren excused herself to let the others work with Morris on where the Inquisition would go from here, relieved that the management of such a big task was no longer her responsibility.

Outside, she wandered about a bit, smiling and shaking hands and exchanging greetings with her people. As she neared the stable, she saw a horse standing ready, a saddle blanket being placed on its back, and she hurried toward it. Blackwall at least had the good grace to blush as she neared him.

“You were leaving without so much as a word?”

“I would have written, once I got there.” He sighed. “I have to go eventually; sooner rather than later seemed the better choice.”

“You don’t have to go yet. There are still rifts to close, and … I’m sure more things to fight.”

He looked at her, shaking his head gently. “No. I made a promise—to you, and to Blackwall before you. It’s time I became a man of my word.” Blackwall smiled a little. “’Helped stop a magister darkspawn.’ Not something every Warden-recruit gets to say.”

“No, I suppose not. You know we couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Well … that’s nice to hear, at any rate.” He tilted his head to the side. “So now that you’ve saved the world, what’s next? Helping to put it all back together?”

“Something like that. I’m not sure it can ever truly be put back together—was it ever together in the first place?”

“You may have a point there. Best of luck to you, whatever you do.” He bowed. “It has been my honor, Inquisitor.”

“And mine.” Ren watched him as he finished saddling up and rode out. His back was straight, and he didn’t turn to look back as he went. Solas gone, and now Blackwall. The companions were breaking apart faster than she had anticipated.

She wandered back toward the keep, helping with the setup for the party until she was indignantly shooed away by Flissa. At last, she headed back upstairs to her quarters to start getting ready—a long hot bath, a nap, a change of clothes. All three were somewhat easier, if less fun, than they would have been if Ashkaari was there; she wondered if he was closeted with Krem making plans for the Chargers’ departure. That would explain the awkward look from Flissa and the way the other woman was avoiding her. But Ren didn’t much want to talk to her friend, either, not until the announcement was made tomorrow. Keeping Ashkaari from reading the plan in her face was challenge enough.

He made his appearance just before the party, changing into clean pants.

Ren lounged on the sofa and watched him. “You sure you won’t wear the jacket?”

He frowned at her. “No.”

“Not even for me?”

“No.”

“Spoilsport.”

They went down together, Ren blushing as the entire room stood and clapped for her. She’d be very happy when all this blew over. 

The feast was a merry one; Ren and the Iron Bull sat with the advisors and Lucas Hawke and Varric and Cassandra and Dorian, and the jokes flew thick and fast.

Slowly the last plates were cleared, and a space opened up for dancing, and Ren leaned back in her seat, sighing in contentment.

“First dance?” Lucas asked her, but a large Qunari-size shadow interposed itself over him. 

“First dance is mine.”

Lucas grinned up at the Iron Bull. “Not going to argue.”

Ren was happy to dance, and even happier to dance with Ashkaari, openly this time. “Do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Help Leliana and Josephine keep my father off me.”

“You can’t avoid him forever.”

“Just till tomorrow. I just want one day of happiness.”

“Too bad Blackwall left already.” His eye searched her face, and Ren chuckled.

“Still jealous?”

“No.” But the word came too quickly and too easily.

“He was ready to go; he’d put off joining the Wardens for real for too long.” 

The music ended, and Lucas cut in, giving a mock shiver of fear at the Iron Bull’s glare.

“Possessive type, is he? I have one of those.”

“You’ll be heading back to her soon, I imagine.”

“Can’t wait.” He grinned. “I was glad to help, though. Glad to see Corypheus taken down once and for all. Well, I didn’t see it, but … you know what I mean.”

“Yes. Lucas, when do you get used to it?”

“What, the applause and the thanks and all of it? About the time it goes away.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Not for a minute.” He looked at her closely. “You’re staying on?”

“Seems that way,” Ren said noncommittally.

“I recommend getting away from it all.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Well, if you ever want to, remember, our ship is your ship.”

“Sounds good. Someday I might take you up on it.”

“I hope you do.” He grinned at her again as the music ended, leading her back to the table. The Iron Bull and Dorian had gone in search of more drinks, Josephine to chasten the waiters, and where the others had disappeared to was anyone’s guess. Only Varric remained, leaning back in his chair and watching it all.

“Planning your next book?” Ren asked him.

“I’m thinking of calling it This Shit Is Weird. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a bit on the nose, really. Maybe you want to ease into the weirdness.”

He chuckled. “I still haven’t decided if I should do it, though. As if anyone would believe this story.”

“Not once you get done adding your own special touches, they won’t,” Lucas said. “Does anyone really believe The Tale of the Champion?”

“Maybe I’ll shelve it for a while, see if it has legs. Besides, I’m going to have my hands full with the reconstruction and relief efforts in the Free Marches as soon as I get back.”

“You, too?” Ren asked in dismay. “Everyone’s leaving.”

Varric looked abashed, staring down into his drink, and Ren patted him on the shoulder.

“The people of the Free Marches will be lucky to have you.”

“I don’t know about that, but Kirkwall is in bad shape, and a lot of the other city-states were hit hard by the war.” He looked pointedly at Lucas, who rolled his eyes and pretended to be very interested in the dancing. 

“I’m sure the Viscount can handle it,” Lucas said.

“Yeah, I’ll tell him you said so.” Varric looked up at Ren, smiling. “I’m not leaving for a while yet, though. Plenty of time for some more Wicked Grace before I go. Curly needs to win his pants back.”

Ren laughed. “Good. I’m sure we can find some trouble to get into before you go.”

She left them there, still arguing about Lucas’s refusal to return to Kirkwall, and ran almost immediately into Cole, who was hovering just at her shoulder.

“Is it time yet?”

“Not yet. Tomorrow.”

“It hurts him, but … he’s proud of it.”

“I know. Cole,” she said abruptly, “are you … all right?”

“I know who I am now. I am me, thanks to you, and to the Iron Bull, and Varric.” He frowned. “What happens next? Where do we go?”

“We stay here, at least for a while. And then … well. Won’t it be interesting to see what comes next?”

“Interesting … yes.” He nodded, and then he was gone, in the way he had, and Sera was making her way toward Ren, weaving a little, with a mug in her hand the size of her head.

She stopped, frowning at Ren. “Tell me. You have to know.”

“Know what?”

“Is this for us, or for Her? Or, you know, Him?”

“Her? Him?”

“You know, the big mucky-mucks. Andraste and the old man.”

“Oh.” Ren shook her head. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

“Because I was there,” Sera said earnestly, “and I still don’t know what’s real.”

“This is real, Sera. You and me, Skyhold, the Inquisition. This is real.”

“Yeah. Right.” Sera didn’t look entirely convinced, though. She took a long drink. “Things to do yet, right?”

“Always. You’re staying?”

“You trying to get rid of me?” 

“No! I want you to stay.”

“Good.” Sera nodded firmly, and turned around, making her unsteady way toward the Undercroft. Ren wondered what the elf was going to do down there, but she figured Dagna and Harritt could take care of her.

Across the room, Ren met Dorian’s eyes, smiling at the mage, and he put his drink down and came to her. “May I have this dance?”

“Always.”

“You know that the servants seem to think I’m adorable now? They no longer cower in fear. Most distressing.”

“I’ve always known you were adorable.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes, looking her over. “You’re sober.”

“Guilty as charged. No time to drink—to much dancing and talking.”

“A terrible faux pas, to be sober at your own party.”

“No doubt. My life is a series of terrible faux pas.”

He chuckled. “I’m certain. It’s part of your charm.”

“You know I appreciate everything you’ve done for us. For me.”

“Now, if you start being sincere I’ll go all to pieces.” He hesitated. “I’ve … decided to stay with the Inquisition. For now.” A smile lit his face, rare and genuine. “Tevinter lacks the presence of my best and only friend.”

“Good. I would have missed you terribly.” Ren hesitated in her turn. “How are you and Ser Morris?”

“Why do you ask?” His grey eyes were suddenly keen, losing the glaze of alcohol.

“Just curious.”

“Then keep your curiosity to yourself.”

“Of course.” Ren wondered what would happen. An Inquisitor in a liaison with a Tevinter was no better off than an Inquisitor in a liaison with a Qunari; for a moment she felt sorry for having placed Robert and Dorian in such a position. But it was what the Inquisition needed. She wouldn’t have wanted to leave it in less competent hands, including her own.

Leliana came to claim a dance with Dorian next, and Ren caught Josephine by one shiny sleeve as the Ambassador hurried past. “It’s a good party, Josephine. Take a breath.”

“I should never have hired new caterers.”

“They’re doing very well. The drinks are flowing, and that’s what matters.”

“Oh, are the drinks good? I wasn’t sure about them.”

“They’re very good.” Or so Ren assumed; she was looking forward to having one at some point.

Josephine sighed with relief. “It was so wonderful to prepare for a banquet instead of the end of the world. Tonight, everyone from commoners to kings is talking about us. All of Thedas is discussing the success of the Inquisition.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to you,” Josephine countered.

Ren smiled. “If you say so.”

There was a crash from the other side of the room, and Josephine hurried off, the moment lost. Ren took advantage of a break to find the corner where the Iron Bull stood next to the drinks. He handed her one.

“ _Anaan_!”

“ _Anaan_ ,” Ren echoed, drinking. She sighed. “Nice to have finally gotten here.”

“I’ll say.” The Iron Bull looked moodily over the rim of his cup. “That was the Tevinter-est Vint in the history of all Vints. The original mold from which all subsequent Vints were cast.”

“Except Dorian.”

He glanced at her. “Maybe. Still … you kicked the shit out of the big one. And I was there to see it.”

“You got me there.”

He didn’t argue. “It’s weird.”

“What is?”

“I joined the Inquisition under orders from the Ben-Hassrath and stayed because Corypheus was an asshole.” At Ren’s raised eyebrows, he grinned. “Maybe some other reasons, too. But now that it’s done …” He took a breath, looking at his drink rather than at her. “I’ve got no orders. For the first time in my life, I can go wherever I want.”

“Bull …” She considered reminding him that he had promised not to talk about this. But instead, she said, “Got anywhere in mind?”

He started to answer then seemed to remember his promise. “If it’s all the same with you, I’m pretty good right here, at least for right now.”

“Well, you know I’ll find you the best fights. You and the Chargers.”

“Of course.” He nodded sharply. “Anyway, the only place I’m going tonight is back for more drinks.”

“Really? The only place?”

He popped his eyebrow, his eye warming, and Ren shook her head, smiling. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

She found Cullen standing by the side of the dancers, watching Leliana.

“I don’t suppose I can tempt you onto the floor.”

“I don’t suppose you could.” He smiled at her. “Am I imagining it, or do we have a moment to breathe?”

“It looks like it. I wouldn’t get used to it, though.”

“You’re probably right.” Cullen sighed, his eyes far away. “The Conclave, Haven … it all seems so long ago.” He brought his eyes back to her, smiling. “You should hear the stories they’re telling in the barracks, the pride in their voices.” 

“I’m glad.”

“Some of them have requested leave to return home, but many would follow us still.” He caught himself in mid-sentence. “But I suppose that’s a discussion for another time.”

“It is.” And another person, went unspoken between them. “Cullen … thank you.”

“I did very little.”

“You did a very great deal. Our soldiers put their trust in you.”

“But only because you put your trust in me. You gave me a chance to … prove myself.” The memory of the vials of lyrium on his desk hung between them. “In your place, I’m not sure I would have done the same.”

“Inquisitor!” The voice belonged to Madame de Fer, pretty much the last person Ren wanted to see. Well, after her father.

She smiled apologetically at Cullen. “You earned every bit of the trust I placed in you,” she assured him, giving his arm a squeeze before she turned toward Vivienne.

“So much to do, my dear! I will be returning to Val Royeaux to organize the loyalist mages.”

“Will you?” That was good news; Ren was hardly going to beg Vivienne to stay.

“Yes. The Empress requires my expertise during what is sure to be a difficult transition.”

“Naturally.”

“Have you given any thought to what we discussed when your lovely sister was visiting?”

“I have, as a matter of fact. I think you’ll be most … pleasantly surprised by some of the changes to come.”

“Indeed, my dear.” Vivienne blinked at her. “I do look forward to hearing about them.”

Ren grinned, thinking of what Vivienne’s face would look like when she found out Ren was stepping down. Morris might well be a tough nut to crack, and Vivienne wouldn’t have time in the field to work on him.

She found Cassandra standing awkwardly in a corner. “I can’t believe it’s over!” the Seeker exclaimed as Ren came toward her. “It seemed such an impossible task: defy the Chantry, build the Inquisition from nothing, defeat a creature that would be a god …”

“Sounds like a Tuesday.”

Cassandra frowned. “Yet, here we are,” she continued, ignoring Ren’s sally, “celebrating.”

“We deserve it, don’t you think?”

“I suppose I am just … waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Ren shook her head, thinking of the political nightmares awaiting poor Morris. “Don’t think about that tonight.”

“No. I suppose you’re right.”

“Will you be going to Val Royeaux soon?”

Cassandra shook her head, looking sad. “No; the decision has gone in another direction.”

Ren raised her eyebrows. “Leliana?”

“The Left Hand has her ways.” Cassandra shrugged. “I will rebuild the Seekers of Truth, instead. A worthy goal. Make us the Order we were meant to be.” She smiled at Ren. “And in the meanwhile, I am free to remain with the Inquisition.”

“That’s good news.”

“I was … harsh with you, when we met. And though you are not a believer, you have come to mean so much to … us all. Yes. You are my friend, I hope you know that.”

“Thank you. You are mine, as well.” Ren wasn’t sure she would have characterized them that way, or if Cassandra still would in the morning when she was sober, but for tonight, she would take it.

As Cassandra moved away, Ren watched her speculatively. So Leliana had gone behind all their backs to become Divine. Ren supposed she should have guessed such a thing would happen. She wished Leliana joy of the position-and wondered if it would really be everything Leliana imagined.

But in the end, it wasn't really Ren's problem, and she was very glad of that.


	59. In the Air Tonight

The Inquisition was assembled, and Josephine stood by, her pen poised over her writing board, ready to take down Ren’s words and send them far and wide via Leliana’s ravens. Ren was inside the keep, about to step out onto the stone stairs, her stomach heaving with the force of her nerves.

“It isn’t too late,” Morris said, looking at her worriedly. “You don’t have to do it.”

She smiled weakly at him. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

He shook his head. “I’m ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good. So am I.” She looked at Josephine, who nodded. 

“Good luck, Inquisitor.”

“Thanks.” Stepping outside, she waved her hands in the air, the Anchor’s glow almost lost in the sunshine. But it was still there, and it would remain there, and Ren would use it to close whatever rifts remained. That power she could never put down; no one could take it from her. It was hers. “Inquisition!” she said, raising her voice to be heard as far as she could be. “We won!”

They cheered her then, although Leliana’s people stationed throughout the crowd cut off the applause before it could go on too long. No one wanted to stand out here all day waiting for the cheering crowd to quiet.

“We didn’t come through it unscathed,” Ren continued. “We lost people along the way. Good people, who fought hard. Let us take a moment of silence to think on those who gave their all for the rest of us.” She bowed her head, thinking about Haven, about Adamant and the Arbor Wilds. About all those lost in small skirmishes that had no name. Then she lifted her head again, and continued in the silence. “They died for the Inquisition; for our efforts against Corypheus. That’s what we all worked for, why we came here to Skyhold. And now Corypheus is gone. He will not be coming back.” More cheering, this time subdued. 

Ren looked out over the crowd, picking out Cullen’s handsome face, relaxed as she had ever seen it, Dorian’s intent expression masking whatever he might be thinking, Cole smiling at her, Sera swinging her legs as she sat in her window at the tavern. 

“Thank you, all of you, for being with me through all of this. I could not have done it without you, Anchor or no Anchor.” More cheering and applause, and she lifted the Anchor again. “I still have the Anchor, as you see, and I will continue to use it to close whatever rifts might remain. But now—now it is time for the Inquisition to grow, to move forward as a power within Thedas. And …” She took a deep breath. This was the hard part. Looking into the crowd at Ashkaari, at the pride in his face, she spoke clearly. “And an Inquisition that is heading in a new direction needs a new Inquisitor, one who is eminently suited for the role as it needs to be.”

Chaos erupted, people turning to each other in shock. Ren’s eyes held steady on the face of her lover, seeing the absolute blankness there that told her he was masking a deeper emotion. But which one? Happiness, disappointment, anger, bewilderment? She couldn’t tell.

She waited patiently until there was quiet. “Please, all of you, rest assured that I, and my council of advisors, have not made this decision lightly. I love the Inquisition. I am tremendously proud of where it has come; but I also know that I am not the person it needs to move forward. I will still be here, fighting on the Inquisition’s behalf, but I have every confidence in the new Inquisitor, who has already done such tremendous work on our behalf, and I want you all to have confidence in him as well. Let me introduce to you: Robert Morris!”

Morris came out from behind her, smiling tentatively around, giving a small wave. Ren noticed that he didn’t look down at Dorian, but she did. The mage was nodding. If he disapproved or was unhappy, he wasn’t showing it, and he appeared to understand. 

When she looked back at Ashkaari, he was gone. 

She stepped aside to let Morris speak. His voice was too soft to be heard at first, but it grew in confidence, outlining trade routes and improvements to Skyhold and acquisition of territory. He dreamed big, she was glad to see, and the Inquisition’s enthusiasm was growing to match his. He had the energy they wanted, the vision, the eagerness. There might be some adjustment, but they would follow.

In the crowd, she looked for one more face, and found it: her father’s. He was blazingly angry, glaring at her in a way that she had rarely seen. She had more than surpassed the typical disappointment, and she couldn’t help smiling a little when she realized that she really didn’t care. Not any longer.

Morris’s speech ended to applause, and Ren joined him, both of them waving as the crowd dispersed. 

“See?” she said. “You made it.”

He let out a long, shaky breath. “You’re staying around for a while, though, right? Because I’m not ready to solo.”

“You’ll do great. But yes, I’ll be here for a while.” 

“Good.”

The advisors were there, surrounding Robert, and Ren took the opportunity to escape. She didn’t get far, though, because Krem and Flissa were waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

“So … Inquisitor.”

She shook her head. “That’ll be too confusing, I think, if I let people keep calling me that. Let’s see … we can go with ‘Ser Trevelyan’ if you must … but I think maybe the Chargers ought to get to work on my new nickname.” Ren looked over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Ashkaari. “Or, at least, I hope so.”

Krem frowned. “Didn’t run this one by the chief?”

“Nope.” 

“He’ll be happy, won’t he?” Flissa asked.

Ren shrugged, and Krem shook his head. “He had a whole plan; he was going to be all self-sacrificing, step back. I don’t know if he changes gears this fast.”

“He might not.” It was her biggest concern, really, now that the chance he might try to talk her out of it—or, worse, talk Morris out of it—was put to bed. “But he wanted me to take a moment and figure out what I wanted out of my life. I did that. If he couldn’t anticipate that fighting at his side was what I would choose … well, which of us knew me better, then?”

“It’s a good point,” Krem agreed. “The chief’s used to being the smartest guy in the room, though; it’s not often someone takes him by surprise. I don’t know how he’ll react.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Ren said. “I promised Morris I’d stick around as long as he needed me. Within reason,” she added, grinning at Krem’s look, which said she may have overdone the promise.

Flissa gave her an impulsive hug. “Whatever anyone else thinks, I’m proud of you. I think you did right—for you, and for the Inquisition. And for the Iron Bull, if the big idiot can get his head out of his ass.”

Ren laughed, hugging back. “Thank you! And maybe he already has … you never know.”

Over Flissa’s shoulder, she saw the tall, slender figure of her father coming down the stairs toward her. His eyes were like coals, staring at her. Krem and Flissa walked off together, talking quietly, and Ren stood and waited, watching her father’s progress.

“Father. Perhaps we might want to go somewhere more—“

He cut her off. “Don’t call me that. You’ve harmed this family for the last time!”

“The only thing I’ve harmed is your dreams of what you could do with the power I held. And those were never real in the first place.”

“You have no shame.” He caught her by the arm, dragging her into the lea of the stairs. Cadoc was behind him, his eyes sorrowful, but whether the sorrow was for Ren, for his father and thus himself, or for the public scene, she couldn’t tell. She was grateful for her Inquisition, the soldiers and servants and scouts moving along and not staring at their Inquisitor—former Inquisitor—being scolded like a child. Her father was too upset to care, clearly, which was uncharacteristic of him.

He leaned over her. “Do you have any idea how much you have cost this family? How much time and money has been invested in you? And this is how you repay your obligations?”

Ren shook her head. “No, I have to say, I don’t know the answers to any of that. You tell me.”

“Fix this.”

“I can’t. And I wouldn’t if I could. This is who I am, Father. It’s who I’ve always been. I’m— I’m sorry about Gawen, but you did that as much as I did, by sheltering him. You never listened to him any more than you did to me. You never knew either of us. Do you know Cadoc? Do you know what he thinks, or what he wants? Do you even care?”

Her father’s jaw shifted and twitched, but he didn’t answer.

“I don’t owe you anything. I never have, and I never will, and if you and Demelza and the others want to pretend I died in the fight against Corypheus, please, be my guest. You’ll get nothing from me, because I’ve got nothing to give you. Probably never will.”

“You did this to spite me,” he hissed.

“No. I did this for me, because it was what I wanted. You didn’t enter into it at all.”

He didn’t believe her, she could tell, but he let go of her as if she was on fire. “Very well. Have it your way. From here on out, you are no longer part of this family.”

Ren let him go. Cadoc gave her a long, unreadable look, then followed. Ren relaxed against the stones, giving a long sigh of relief. Maybe someday the break with her family would bother her, but for now it was the most tremendous relief. Any relationship she might have built with her father would have been based on her power and what it could do for him; if someday she were ever to try to rebuild relationships with him or with her sisters or Cadoc, it would be on her own terms, for who she was and not for what she could do for them.

Upstairs in the main keep, she got her first glimpse of the Iron Bull since the speech. Eyes to eye, they stood looking at one another across the room. His face was impassive, unreadable, like stone. Ren held herself still as well. If he was going to agree with what she had done, he would. If he wasn’t … she had done what he asked. It was his problem if her decisions hadn’t been what he expected. He would have to get used to it. She had to hope that he would, because it would break her heart if he didn’t.

After a long moment, he turned away and disappeared through the door toward Solas’s old quarters. 

Varric was staring openly at her, and he grinned when she looked at him. “Congratulations, Rusty. You beat the odds-makers.”

“My goal exactly, Varric.”

He chuckled. “It won’t be the same without you.”

“Now, that actually was my goal.” She smiled at him. “It’ll be better for everyone, me included.”

“I get that.” He nodded. “Congratulations. Most people don’t have the strength to do what you did. I hope it works out for you.”

“Yeah, me, too.” She turned and left the keep, looking for the one person she did want to apologize to in all of this, and found him on the battlements, looking out over the mountains. “Dorian. I’m sorry.”

He turned to her, a little smile playing across his face. “No need. You made the right choice.”

“But I put you in the same position I was glad to get out of.”

“No, you didn’t. You only hastened the decisions that were going to have to be made some day.” He inclined his head slowly. “It was never going to last; I think we both knew that from the start. He had—has—a future, a path ahead of him that leads in a totally different direction from the one that lies before me. I have to go home, Ren. I have to try to fix things there, to make the Imperium what it always should have been. And Robert could not have come with me. Now I can’t stay with him, either. The Inquisition needs him free for all the alliances he can make.”

“Won’t it be a bit of a problem that he’s not available for an alliance through a good marriage?”

Dorian laughed. “Oh, no, it makes it much easier. Because he can never actually contract with anyone, so he’s always there, a tempting plum. Difficult for him, but a little difficulty will be good for him. He likes a challenge.”

“So … you aren’t angry?”

“No. I wish you could have told me.”

“Yes, I do, too, but I didn’t want it to get out.”

“Sensible of you.” Dorian glanced her way. “And what of you? What lies ahead?”

“Hard to say. I guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

“If he doesn’t come around, he’s a fool … and we all know he is no fool.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right. It’s part of my charm.” Dorian smiled, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close, and they stood looking out over the battlements together.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull wandered Skyhold, searching for quiet in which to think, without going up to their quarters. Well, not their quarters any longer. They’d be the new Inquisitor’s quarters, wouldn’t they? 

It stunned him that he hadn’t seen this coming. How had he misread her so badly? He had thought he knew what was best for her, he had looked forward to seeing what she made of herself. But who had that really been about, he wondered. Her? Or himself? Had he been so caught up in his pride, in knowing he had made her what she was, that he had wanted to stake a claim with that pride in her future endeavors?

He stopped at the edge of the barn, where Blackwall had lived for so long. Blackwall had seen what she could be, too. Blackwall had always wanted her to be more than she was, and she had shrunk from Blackwall, from everything he wanted from her.

The Iron Bull gripped the doorframe. Was that what he had done? Had he run from everything she wanted from him, everything she was to him, by trying to push her away and put her on a pedestal he couldn’t reach, in the name of helping her reach her potential?

He had been a lot of things in his life, but he had never been a fucking coward. Until now. His pride, his hubris, his fear, had led him to make an ultimatum, to try to force her to be what he thought she should be. He had been no better than her father. In fact, he had been complicit with her father in trying to push her to be something she never was.

What would she want to do now? He had to think she would want to stay with him—everything she had done said so. But he didn’t want to assume, either. That one glimpse of her he had had across the keep—she had been waiting to see what his reaction would be, but she had masked her own emotions far more effectively than he’d ever imagined she could.

He turned from the doorway, striding toward the keep. Shadows were falling; it had been a long day for everyone, and as he passed he could hear the buzz of rumors flying, questions being passed along, speculations as to the Inquisition’s future.

That some of those questions probably had to do with him, he had no doubt; he had those same questions, and he was ready for the answers. 

But they weren’t to come quite yet; halfway through the main hall, he found his way blocked by a thin, elegant man whose blue eyes glared up at him. “This was your doing, wasn’t it?”

He supposed the man had a right to ask. He shook his head solemnly. “Not me. Her.”

“I thought you were a man of honor.”

The Iron Bull laughed darkly. “Not something many people would have called me, but I’ll take it.” He shrugged. “She’s her own person; she makes her own decisions. Doesn’t need you or me either telling her what’s best for her.”

“You don’t know my daughter, serah. She has always needed guidance.”

The Iron Bull glared down at Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, who, to his credit, stood his ground better than most men did under the force of that glare. “That why you left her to run wild? If she needed guidance, she doesn’t seem to have gotten any from you.”

They stared at each other, neither willing to give an inch. The Iron Bull wasn’t about to admit that he had been swayed by this man’s letter into a thought process that was as bad for her as those arranged marriages had been. Her father wasn’t about to admit that he had made any mistakes in her upbringing.

“I hope this Inquisition rots,” her father muttered eventually. 

The Iron Bull shrugged. “It might. Most things do, eventually.”

There wasn’t much more to be said to that, and Corentin Trevelyan swept from the room in the direction of his rooms. He didn’t move like a man defeated; his spine was straight, his shoulders back, his pace elegant. He would recover.

The question remained, on the other hand: What did she want? The Iron Bull thought he knew, but he was done trying to make decisions for her. He found his heart pounding with an unfamiliar nervousness as he climbed the stairs toward her. She was on the balcony, her arms braced on the railing, looking out over Skyhold. He stopped in the doorway and just looked at her.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren could hear him behind her, but she didn’t turn. He had set all of this in motion; he could take the first step.

She heard his voice, low and husky. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her answer was prepared, and she gave it readily. “Because I didn’t want you to tell me not to.” She turned now, looking at him. He was silhouetted in the doorway; she couldn’t make out his features in the dim light. When he didn’t respond, she added, “You told me to take some time, to think about what I wanted, who I wanted to be. I could see where the Inquisition needed to go and what type of person was needed to get it there—and I don’t want to be that person. I’m a fighter, not a diplomat, or a negotiator, or a spy, or an organizer. Morris is all those things, and he has the enthusiasm for it that I was never going to have.”

The Iron Bull took a step toward her. “But you’re staying on?”

“With the Inquisition? Yes, as long as he needs my help in standing on his own two feet. You can’t make a major transition like this one overnight. But eventually I’ll move on.”

“You’ll miss this place.”

“Skyhold?” Ren grinned. She had been saving this part. “Maybe. But my new place is even better.”

“Oh, yeah?” The Iron Bull held his breath. She had a plan already? Did it include him? He wanted to ask, but somehow the question stuck in his throat.

“There’s a house on the top of a cliff, perfectly circular, with windows that look out across the sea. From it you can hear the waves crash against the rocks below, and you can wander your very own beach.”

He remembered that house, on the Storm Coast. His pulse quickened thinking about being there with her. But … the Inquisition wasn’t the only thing she couldn’t have with him. He needed to know if she had thought it all through. “So, you’re going to settle down? With a husband, maybe some kids?”

Ren could hear the uncertainty in his voice. She shook her head. “No. That’s the kind of future my father wanted for me, the future I ran away from. All I want is a place to go that is mine, and the advisors agreed that I had earned it.” That and a fair chunk of coin, but that was really neither here nor there.

The Iron Bull took another few steps. He was almost close enough to touch now, but she didn’t reach for him. “All?” he said hoarsely.

“Well … maybe not all.” She gave him her best innocent smile. “I might need a job, too.”

“What kind of job?” He was holding his breath again, and her smile widened with joy.

“I was thinking I might join up with a merc company somewhere.”

He took another step, looming over her now, his broad shoulders blocking out the moon. Relief flooded him, and a fierce happiness such as he had never known. Bending over, he growled at her, “What merc commander in his right mind would saddle himself with the ex-Inquisitor? I hear she’s a boatload of trouble, not to mention all the baggage she’s likely to bring along.”

Sure of him at last, happiness bubbled up inside her. “I was hoping you might know someone who could … handle a troublesome former Inquisitor.”

He leaned over, bringing his face closer to hers, and she could just make out the gleam in that single eye. “I might. What would be in it for such a person?”

“There’s the house, for starters. I think it would make a very nice base for a merc company. And … I hear the ex-Inquisitor has rather a large bed. She might be induced to share it, and other things, with the merc commander, if he asked very nicely.” 

His arms wound around her, pulling her tight against him, lifting her up off the ground. “Will you share your life with me, _kadan_?”

Her answer wasn’t in words, but he seemed to find it more than satisfactory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: there are three sequels to this work, "Dragon's Blood", "At the Dragon's Roar", and "Dragon Through the Looking Glass"; in addition, the extremely talented JayRain has written a story called "Beautiful Distraction" about Dorian and Robert Morris, which I highly recommend.


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